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BY E. B. BARRETT.
How beautiful is Earth! my starry thoughts
Look down on it from their unearthly sphere,
And sing symphonious-beautiful is Earth!
The lights and shadows of her myriad's hills;
The branching greenness of her myriad woods;
Her sky-affecting rocks; her changing sea;
Her rushing, gleaming cataracts; her streams
That race below, the winged clouds on high;
Her pleasantness of vale and meadow !
Me seemeth through the leafy trees to ring
A chime of bells to falling waters tuned,
Whereat comes heathen Zephyrus out of breath
With running up the hills, and shakes his hair
From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad
With keeping blithe Dan Phoebus company;
And throws him on the grass, though half afraid,
First glancing round lest tempests should be nigh;
And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips,
And shapes their beauty into sound, and calls
On all the petalled flowers that sit beneath
In hiding places from the rain and snow,
To loosen the hard soil, and leave their cold
Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him.
They straightway hear his voice.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
A DIM and mighty minister of old Time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!-the very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;-and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-
The tenderest image of mortality-
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves, all these
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead!-the people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved
Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewelled
On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set:
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away. Return, my soul
The cross recalis thee.-Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners, and the crests of earth,
Fixed in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo the throng of beating human hearts
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal Hope,
Gathered before their God! Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves !-a mighty burst!-
A forest-sounding music!-every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minister-forest-like itself-
With its long avenues of pillared shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
I SEE her now. How more than beautiful
She paces yon broad terrace!-The free wind
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek,
Which yet it crimsons not,-the pure, the pale,—
Like a young saint. How delicately carved
The Gercian outline of her face!-but touched
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek.
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heavens,
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more
As the heart fills them. There, those parted lips,-
Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence,-
Shining like snow her clasped and earnest hands
She seems a dedicated nun, whose heart
Is God's own altar. By her side I feel
As in some holy place. My best love, mine,
Blessings must fall on one like thee!
Mankind was born to wonder, and adore.