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“Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; But lately I marked when, majestic, on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendor again; But man's faded glory no change shall renew;
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !
• 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with
dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
0, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?"
'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to
shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. “0, pity, great Father of light!” then I cried, “ Thy creature, who fain would not wander from
thee; Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst
And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn; So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn;
SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are
blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS, BY LONGFELLOW.
Into the Silent Land!
Into the Silent Land !
O Land! O Land !
ODE. — Collins.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
TO OUR ELDEST HEIR. – Mrs. Henry Coleridge.
DeEm not that our eldest heir
Who can measure truly ?
Ever springing newly.
See in yonder plot of flowers
Which the heavens are shedding.
High and richly spreading.
She that latest leaves the nest,
Though the most protected;
Or in thought neglected.
Gainst the islet's rocky shore
Decked in softest lustre;
And the harebells cluster.
THE HUSBANDMAN. — Sterling.
EARTH, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother
Shares with him these gifts divine.
Many a power within her bosom
Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,
Golden ear and clustered wreath.
These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;
Since his work on earth began.
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
All from dust receive their birth.
Barn, and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,
Earthly goods for earthly lives,
These her child from her derives.
What the dream, but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade, -
For they work thy toil to aid.
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness !
Man himself is all a seed;
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.
HELLVELLYN. - Sir W. Scott.
In 1805, a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst the romantic scenery of the “ Lake District," in the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hellvellyn Mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards his remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier-dog, the sole companion of his rambles.
I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty