"Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feel this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum That nothing of itself will come, "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, time away." THE TABLES TURNED. - Wordsworth. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. T And hark! how blithe the throst e sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Misshapes the beauteous forms of things. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up these barren leaves; MANHOOD.-C. A. Dana. DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest; And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth; The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling, With joy I bathe, and many souls beside THE CLOUD.— Shelley. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 't is my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, - Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lure by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea b. neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when with never a stain And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. |