VII. MORNING ON THE RHINE.-BOWLES.
"Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's brow-
Hung with the clusters of the bending vine-
Shōne in the early light, when on the RHINE
We sailed, and heard the waters round the prow
In murmurs parting: varying as we go,
Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,
As some gray convent-wall or sun-lit spire
Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow.
Here castles, like the prisons of despair,
Frown as we pass!-There, on the vineyard's side,
The bursting sunshine pōurs its streaming tide;
While GRIEF, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
VIII. MORNING SOUNDS.-BEATTIE.1
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?—
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees; the linnet's lay of love;
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ;
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;
The patridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower;
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.
1 James Beattie, the well-known Scotch poet and moralist, author of the celebrated poem, the "Minstrel,"
and of the "Essay on Truth," was born December 5th, 1735, and died August 18th, 1803.
IX. EARLY RISING.-HURDIS.1
RISE with the lark, and with the lark to bed.
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of every flower that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps,
Soon as the sun departs. Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon
Her oriëntal vail puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed,
That nature boasts, to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous steam
Of midnight theater, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims;
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion.
Oh! there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep; or wakeful, dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt,
But in the regions of romance'. Ye fair,
Like you it must be wooed, or never won;
And, being lost, it is in vain ye aşk
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded features to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.
152. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
I. INVOCATION TO NIGHT.-J. F. HOLLINGS.
YOME, with thy sweeping cloud and starry vest
Mother of counsel, and the joy which lies
In feelings deep, and inward sympathies,
1 James Hurdis, an English poet, born in 1763, and died in 1801.
Soothing, like founts of health, the wearied breast. Lo! o'er the distant hills the day-star's crest
Sinks redly burning; and the winds arise, Moving with shadowy gusts and feeble sighs Amid the reeds which veil the bittern's nest! Day hath its melody and light-the sense
Of mirth which sports round fancy's fairy mine; But the full power, which loftier aids dispense, To speed the soul where scenes unearthly shineSilence, and peace, and stern magnificence,
And awe, and throned solemnity-are thine!
II. A TWILIGHT PICTURE.-WHITTIER.
THE twilight deepened round us.
The great woods climbed the mountain at our back:
And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day
On the shorn greennèss of the clearing lay,
The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:
The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard,
The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,
The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;
Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate
Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
Of sun-brown children, listening, while they swung
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye,—
The few we liked, the one we loved,-
And the whole heart is memory :
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;
Yet as the shadows round us lower,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given ;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
IV. NIGHT.-COLERIDGE,1
THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The in-door note of in'dustry is still;
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill
The small birds wait not for their daily bread:
The voiceless flowers-how quietly they shed
Their nightly odors! and the household rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds, that fill
The vacant expectation, and the dread
Of listening night. And haply now she sleeps ;
For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hushed in peace: the soft dew silent weeps,
Like hopeless lovers, for a maid so fair :-
Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
V. NIGHT AT CORINTH.2-BYRON.
'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down:
Blue roll the waters: blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So widely, spiritually bright ;-
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal rāy?
The waves on either shōre lay there
'Hartley Coleridge, eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born at Clevedown, a small village near Bristol, England, September 19th, 1796. Some of his poems are exquisitely beautiful, and his sonnets are surpassed by few in the language. His prose works are remarkable for
brilliancy of imagery, beauty of thought, pure English style, and pleasing and instructive suggestions. He died on the 6th of January, 1849.
2 The night here described is supposed to have been in 1715, when Corinth, then in possession of the Venetians, was besieged by the Turks.
Calm, clear, and ăzure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shōne the crescent curling:
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill;
And the wild hum of that wild höst
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's' voice in air
In midnight call to wonted' prayer.
VI. A SUMMER'S NIGHT.-BAILEY.3
THE last high upward slant of sun on the trees,
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall,
Seems to console earth for the glōry gone.
Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there;
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings!
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end.
It will wake no more till the all-revealing day;
When, like a drop of water, greatened bright
Into a shadow, it shall show itself,
With all its little tyrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,-
Straight-like an infant's spirit, or a mocked
And mourning messenger of grace to man.
Would it had taken me too on its wings!
My end is nigh. Would I might die outright!
1 Mu ězí zin, one appointed by the Turks, who use no bells for the purpose, to summon the religious to their devotions, to the extent of his voice. ? Wonted, (wůnt' ed).
Philip James Bailey, an English poet, was born in Nottingham, April
22d, 1816. He was educated in the schools of his native town and at the university of Glasgow. His first and most remarkable poem, "Festus," appeared in 1839. His principal publications since are the "Angel World" and "Mystic."
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