Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in re

pose

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with
death,

In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath,

In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar,In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no

more,

Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign:

But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious feet;

And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,

As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

AN ITALIAN SUMMER EVENING.

BY BYRON.

THE moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset divides the sky with her a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free-
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,

Where the day joins the past eternity;

While on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns

With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rheatian hill As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order :-gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows.

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :

And now they change; a paler shadow shows
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang im-
bues

With a new colour as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest till-'tis gone-and all is

I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: When you do dance, I wish

you

A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own No other function: Each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.

NIAGARA.

BY L. H. SIGOURNEY.

FLOW en for ever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him
Eternally-bidding the lip of man

Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.

Ah! who can dare

To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow-'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent labourer-and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not night or day. The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,
That wait the archangle's signal to dissolve

This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
On thy unending volume.

Every leaf

That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapour-wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the clouds,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint

Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,

Were profanation.

Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty ;

But as it presses with delirious joy

To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.