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From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun.

Yet not the golden islands

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IF solitude hath ever led thy steps
To the wild ocean's echoing shore,
And thou hast lingered there
Until the sun's broad orb
Seemed resting on the burnished wave,
Thou must have marked the lines

Of purple gold that motionless

Hung o'er the sinking sphere:

Thou must have marked the billowy clouds,

Edged with intolerable radiancy,

Towering like rocks of jet

Crowned with a diamond wreath.

And yet there is a moment,

When the sun's highest point

Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge,
When those far clouds of feathery gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
Like islands on a dark-blue sea ;
Then has thy fancy soared above the earth,
And furled its wearied wing
Within the Fairy's fane.

Gleaming in yon flood of light,

Nor the feathery curtains
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch,
Nor the burnished ocean's waves

Paving that gorgeous dome,
So fair, so wonderful a sight

As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.
Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall !
Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread
Its floors of flashing light,

Its vast and azure dome,
Its fertile golden islands
Floating on a silver sea;

Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted
Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
And pearly battlements around
Looked o'er the immense of heaven.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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The landscape now prepares for night:

A gauzy mist slow settles round; Eve shows her hues in every sight,

And blends her voice with every sound.

The sheep stream rippling down the dell, Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; The pacing kine, with tinkling bell,

Come grazing through the pasture-gate.

The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits:

One yawns with stretch of leg and wing; One rears and fans, then, settling, sits; One at a moth makes awkward spring.

The geese march grave in Indian file,

The ragged patriarch at the head; Then, screaming, flutter off awhile,

Fold up, and once more stately tread.

Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air;
Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend;
Lifts foot, glares round, then follows where
His scratching, picking partlets wend.
Staid Towser scents the glittering ground;
Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep,
Wheels his head-drooping frame around
And sinks with fore-paws stretched for sleep.

The oxen, loosened from the plow,

Rest by the pear-tree's crooked trunk ; Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, Trim, in a mound beside him sunk.

One of the kine upon the bank

Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar ;
One smooths, with lapping tongue, her flank ;
With ponderous droop one finds the floor.

Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark
Glimmers across the pillared scene,
With the grouped geese,
—a pallid mark,
And scattered bushes black between.

The fire-flies freckle every spot
With fickle light that gleams and dies;
The bat, a wavering, soundless blot,
The cat, a pair of prowling eyes.

Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows
The deepening air and darkening ground;
By its rich scent I trace the rose,

The viewless beetle by its sound.

The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars;

The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone; And now the heavens are set with stars, And night and quiet reign alone.

ALFRED B. STREET.

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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 Rhotian hill, As day and night contending were until Nature reclaimed her order: gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill 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 strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains: parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till 't is gone - and all is gray.

LORD BYRON.

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