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160 AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.
That pavement damp and cold
No mingling voices sound,—
An infant wail alone; —
O change! — O wondrous change!
Burst are the prison-bars; —
Beyond the stars!
O change, stupendous change!
AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.— Watts,
Sweet flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing
Who in leafy shadows sit,
And your wondrous structures build,
Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light,
'T is He calls up the sun, and gives him every ray.
Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide,
Let the fierce glances of your eyes
In harmless play, twist and unfold
The volumes of your scaly gold; That rich embroidery of your gay attire
Proclaims your Maker kind and wise.
Insects and mites of mean degree,
TO THE EVENING WIND. — Bryant.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
162 TO THE EVENING WIND.
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone ; — a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go,-—but the circle of eternal change,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
THE ERL KING.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
Who rideth so late through the night-wind wild?
It is the father with his child;
He has the little one well in his arm;
He holds him safe, and he folds him warm.
"My son, why hidest thy face so shy?"
"Come, lovely boy, come, go with me;Such merry plays I will play with thee;Many a bright flower grows on the strand, And my mother has many a gay garment at hand."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
"Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me?
184 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
"My father, my father, and seest thou not
"I love thee; thy beauty has ravished my sense;
The father shudders ; he hurries on;
LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. — Bums,
Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
Out o'er the grassy lea;
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
Makes woodland-echoes ring;
* Gleams with an uncertain light,