WHAT THE WINDS BRING. WHICH is the wind that brings the cold? Which is the wind that brings the heat? The south-wind, Katy; and corn will grow, And peaches redden for you to eat, When the south begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain? Which is the wind that brings the flowers? EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. THE DANCING OF THE AIR. AND now behold your tender nurse, the air, And common neighbor that aye runs around, How many pictures and impressions fair Within her empty regions are there found, Which to your senses dancing do propound! For what are breath, speech, echoes, music, winds, But dancings of the air in sundry kinds? For when you breathe, the air in order moves, Now in, now out, in time and measure true; Hence is her prattling daughter, Echo, born, And thou, sweet Music, dancing's only life, The ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech, Loadstone of fellowship, charming-rod of strife, The soft mind's paradise, the sick mind's leech. With thine own tongue thou trees and stones canst teach, That, when the air doth dance her finest measure, Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet pleasure. Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom? In color though varied, in beauty may vie, Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? O, wild as the accents of lover's farewell Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which they tell! SYRIA. LORD BYRON. FROM "PARADISE AND THE PERI." Now, upon Syria's land of roses To one who looked from upper air Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks With their rich restless wings, that gleam Of the warm west, - as if inlaid Banqueting through the flowery vales ;- THOMAS MOORE. THE VALE OF CASHMERE. FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, gave, Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? | Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over; And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world! THOMAS MOORE. A FOREST HYMN. THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, O, to see it at sunset, - when warm o'er the lake When the shrines through the foliage are gleam- Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect ing half shown, God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore And each hallows the hour by some rites of its Only among the crowd, and under roofs own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Father, thy hand Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly Hath reared these venerable columns, thou shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle Chenars Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun of Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Of his arch-enemy Death, There have been holy men who hid themselves The generation born with them, nor seemed But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace In all that proud old world beyond the deep, My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me, the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die; but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses, ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of Earth's charms! upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate With all the waters of the firmament, THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFFLLOW, |