whom thy blessedness is lavished-sustained by the great hap piness of doing good without reward-satisfied, through a thou sand ages, with the pure consciousness of duty-thou art the type and teacher of the life of man. Shine on, most glorious orb! we hail in thee the elder brother of our souls, in whose grandeur our nature is ennobled. H. B. WALLACE.'

1.

182. APOSTROPHE TO THE Sun.

ENTER of light and energy! thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first waken'd airs of earth had blown, On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light;

Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,

And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquench'd and bright

2. Thy path is high in heaven :-we can not gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar
To mingle with the equal light of star;
For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole,

One of the sparks of night, that fire the air;
And as around thy center planets roll,

So thou, too, hast thy path around the Central Soul.

3. Thou lookèst on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn; Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne: Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;

All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,
And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

'See Biographical Sketch, p. 542.

4. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow: Life lingers, and would die, but thy return' Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow

Of all the power that brooded in the urn'

Of their chill'd frames; and then they proudly spurn' All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn," When, on a dewy morn, thou dartèst there

Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair. 5. The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing

Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shōre;—

The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore. 6. The hills are thine--they catch thy newest beam, And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream, That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters: so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints, than ever bud,
When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.
7. Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain: below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by:
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,

Dazzling, but cold. Thy farewell glance looks there;

And when below thy hues of beauty die,

Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear,

Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

'Return (re tårn').—ʼ Urn (ễrn).—'Spurn (spårn).—Burn (bẻrn)

8. The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues
Are pencill'd by thee: when thou bendèst low,
Or comèst in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving fold with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw
Shame on the proudest art.
The tender stain

Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow
Girds the wide world; and in their blended chain,
All tints, to the deep gold that flashes in thy train;-
9. These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,'
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march,
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form with perfect curve a lifted line,
Striding the earth and air. Man looks, and tells
How Peace and Mercy in its beauty shine,
And how the heavenly messenger impels

Her glad wings on the path, that thus in e'ther swells. 10. The ocean is thy vassal;-thou dost sway

His waves to thy dominion, and they go

Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way,
Rising and falling in eternal flow:

Thou lookèst on the waters, and they glow;
They take them wings, and spring aloft in air,

And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw
Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear
The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.
11 In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell.
Oh! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,
I hurry o'er the waters when the sail

Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well
Over the curling billow, and the gale

Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

'The seven principal colors of the rainbow.

12. The soul is thine :-of old thou wert the power
gave the poët life; and I in thee

Who
Feel my heart gladden at the holy hour
When thou art sinking in the silent sea:
Or when I climb the height, and wander free
In thy meridian glory; for the air

Sparkles and burns in thy intensity ;—

I feel thy light within me, and I share
In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there.

1.

183. THE OCEAN.

J. G. PERCIVAL

Now cleanse you rife and bear the world's great trade,

OW stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made

To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun,
Then back into themselves in rivers run;
Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide,

Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide.

2. Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains;
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors-
Hark! hear him!-how he beats, and tugs, and roars
As if he would break forth again, and sweep
Each living thing within his lowest deep!

3. Type of the Infinite! I look away
Over thy billows, and I can not stay
My thought upon a resting-place, or make
A shōre beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain

To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.
Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach
Far back beyond all date. And, oh! how old
Thou art to me! For countless ages thou hast roll'
4. Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn,
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn;

'See Biographical Sketch,
p. 238.

Waiting, thou mighty minister of death,

Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath.
At last thou didst it well! The dread command
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land;
And then once more unto the silent heaven
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given.

And, though the land is throng'd again, O Sea!
Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee.
The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call,
Share thy own spirit: it is sadness all!
How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down
Yonder tall cliff-he with the iron crown!
And see! those sable pines along the steep

Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep!

Like stōlèd monks, they stand and chant the dirge
Over the dead, with thy low beating surge. R. H. DANA.'

HAL

184. THE SEA.

A! exclaimed I, as I sprang upon the broad beach of the Mediterranean, and my spirit drank the splendid spectacle of light and life that spread before me-what a relief it is to escape from the straining littleness and wearisome affectation of men, to the free, majestic, and inspiring sea-to listen to his stern, exalted voice-to watch the untrammeled swell of these pure waters, till the pulse of our own heart beats in sympathetic nobleness-to behold it heave in untiring energy-changing momently in form, changing never in impression!

2. What joy is it to be sure that here there is nothing counterfeit nothing feigned-nothing artificial! Feeling, here, grapples with what will never falter; imagination here may spread its best-plumed wings, but will never outstrip the real. There is here none of that fear which never leaves the handicraft of art--the fear of penetrating beneath the surface of beauty. Here, man feels his majesty by feeling his nothingness; for the majesty of man lies in his conceptions, and the concep tion of self-nothingness is the grandest we can have. That small

1 See Biographical Sketch, p. 251.