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All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :

All heaven and earth are still: from the high host

Of stars, to the lullid lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentred in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt

In solitude, where we are least alone ;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty ;-'t would disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
Not vainly did the early Persian make

His altar the high places, and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take

A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek

The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Upreard of human hauds. Come, and compare

Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With nature's realms of worship, earth and air ; Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!


The Alps at Daybreak. THE sunbeams streak the azure skies,

And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,

And chase the roebuck through the snow.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,

Up craggy steeps and ridges.rude,
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,

From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,

And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,

Perch'd like an eagle's nest on high.


Night Storm on the Alps. THE sky is changed !-and such a change ! Oh, night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder: Not from one lone cloud,

But every mountain now bath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her wisty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! And this is in the night: Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,

A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again 'tis black, and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye !

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be

Things that have made me watchful; the far roll

Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.

But where of ye, 0 tempests ! is the goal ?
Are ye like those within the human breast ?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ?


Summer Longings,
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May-
Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May-
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying

All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing,

Throbbing for the May-
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;
Where, in laughing and in sobbing

Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings ;
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

Life still ebbs away:
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!


An April Day.
All day the low-hung clouds have dropt,

Their garner'd fulness down;
All day that soft grey mist hath wrapt

Hill, valley, grove, and town.
There has not been a sound to-day

To break the calm of nature, Nor motion, I might almost say,

Of life, or living creature;

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,

Or cattle faintly lowing:
I could have half-believed I heard

The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear-I love it well-

The rain's continuous sound,
Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

Down straight into the ground,

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set

With shoots of tender green.
Sure, since I look'd at early morn,

Those honeysuckle buds
Have swellid to double growth; that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs ;
That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,

The milk-white flowers revealing;
Even now, upon my senses first

Methinks their sweets are stealing.
The very earth, the steamy air,

Is all with fragrance rife;
And grace and beauty everywhere

Are flushing into life.
Down, down they come—those fruitful stores !

Those earth-rejoicing drops !
A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops;
And ere the dimples on the stream

Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west, a parting gleam

Breaks forth, of amber light.
But yet behold—abrupt and loud

Comes down the glittering rain ; The farewell of a passing cloud, The fringes of her train.

CHAUCER. (Modernised.)

Approach of Spring, Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumbèd earth, And makes it tender; gives a second birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee. Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring In triumph to the world the youthful Spring: The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.


The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the grey moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring.

Fraught with a transient frozen shower
If a cloud should haply lour,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the sun again,
O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery veil
Looks through the thin-descending hail :
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
'Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.


Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o? daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea.
And lav'rocks wake the merry morr,

Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring

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