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But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress !
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Ofallthat flattered, followed, sought, and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude !

BYRON.

NIGHT.

Night is the time for rest :

How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams :

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !
Night is the time for toil :

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep :

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of Memory, where sleep

The joys of other years ;
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch :

O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still.

The orb of day In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field Sinks sweetly smiling: not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruftled deep; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; And vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Rolls o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; T'empest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, With all his windsand lightnings, trackshis prey; The torn deep yawns,

the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

NIGHT.

FROM

CHILDE HAROLD."

'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end :
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a

friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itselfsurvives young Loveandjoy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,

Death hath but little left him to destroy ! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be

a boy?

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ;

A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion

dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean,

This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her

stores unrolled.

Night is the time for care :

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair

Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost. Night is the time to think :

When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink

Of yonder starry pole

Discerns beyond the abyss of night

What stays thee from the clouded noons, The dawn of uncreated light.

Thy sweetness from its proper place ?

Can trouble live with April days,
Night is the time to pray:

Or sadness in the summer moons ?
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away ;

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
So will his follower do,

The little speedwell's darling blue, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
And commune there alone with God.

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
Night is the time for Death:
When all around is peace,

O thou, new-year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

That longs to burst a frozen bud,
From sin and suffering cease,

And flood a fresher throat with song.
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends ; – such death be mine.

Now fades the last long streak of snow;
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Now bourgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
'Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night

The distance takes a lovelier hue,

And drowned in yonder living blue
Sweep through her marble halls !
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

The lark becomes a sightless song.
From the celestial walls !

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

The flocks are whiter down the vale, Stoop o'er me from above;

And milkier every milky sail The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

On winding stream or distant sea ; As of the one I love.

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes,

In yonder greening gleam, and fly That till the haunted chambers of the Night,

The happy birds, that change their sky

To build and brood, that live their lives Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

From land to land ; and in my breast My spirit drank repose ;

Spring wakens too ; and my regret The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,

Becomes an April violet, From those deep cisterns flows.

And buds and blossoms like the rest.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY ! Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! And coine, blue deeps, magnificently strewn

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live ; Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, By upper winds through pompous motions blown.

With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive, The best-beloved Night !

Now it is death in life,
Creeps round my window, till I cannot see
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens

Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free
SPRING.

This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, FROM “IN MEMORIAM."

Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies

In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, Dip down upon the northern shore,

While she performs her customed charities; O sweet new-year, delaying long :

I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare, Thou doest expectant Mature wrong;

O God, forone clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! Delaying long, delay no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

a vapor dense

DAVID GRAY.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of

quivers,
AH! my heart is weary waiting,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
Waiting for the May,-

With a noise of winds and many rivers,
Waiting for the pleasant rambles

With a clamor of waters, and with might ; Where the fragrant hawthom-brambles, Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most fleet, With the woodbine alternating,

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet !
Scent the dewy way.

For the faint cast quickens, the wan west shivers,
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the Waiting for the May.

night. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Longing for the May,

Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Longing to escape from study,

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring To the young face fair and ruddy,

to her,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
Longing for the May.

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind Sighing for the May,

sing. Sighing for their sure returning,

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
When the summer beams are burning,

And all the season of snows and sins ;
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the winter lay.

The days dividing lover and lover,
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing,

The light that loses, the night that wins ;

And time remembered is grief forgotten,
Sighing for the May.

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
Ah ! my heart pained with throbbing, And in green underwood and cover
Throbbing for the May,

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Where, in langhing and in sobbing, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
Glide the streams away.

The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ;
Throbbing for the May.

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,

And the oat is heard above the lyre,
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes
Waiting for the May :

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Life still ebbs away ;

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Mau is ever weary, weary,

Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mænad and the Bassarid ;
Waiting for the May !

And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; The mother of months in meadow or plain

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Fills the shadows and windy places

Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ;

The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, And the brown bright nightingale amorous

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves Is half assuaged for Itylus,

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces;

The wolf that follows, the fawn that fiies. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

THE WINTER BEING OVER.

Tie winter being over,
In order comes the spring,
Which doth green herbs discover,
And cause the birds to sing.
The night also expired,
Then comes the morning bright,
Which is so much desired
By all that love the light.

This may learn

Them that mourn,
To put their grief to flight :
The spring succeedeth winter,
And day must follow night.

He therefore that sustaineth
Aliction or distress
Which every member paineth,
And findeth no release,
Let such therefore despair not,
But on firm hope depend,
Whose griefs immortal are not,
And therefore must have end.

They that faint

With complaint Therefore are to blame ; They add to their afflictions, And amplify the same.

For if they could with patience
Awhile possess the mind,
By inward consolations
They might refreshing find,
To sweeten all their crosses
That little time they 'dure ;
So might they gain by losses,
And sharp would sweet procure.

But if the mind

Be inclined
To unquietness,
That only may be called
The worst of all distress.

He that is melancholy,
Detesting all delight,
His wits by sottish folly
Are ruinated quite.
Sad discontent and murmurs
To him are incident ;
Were he possessed of honors,
He could not be content.

Sparks of joy

Fly away ;
Floods of care arise ;
And all delightful motion
In the conception dies.

But those that are contented
However things do fall,
Much, anguish is prevented,
And they soon freed from all.
They finish all their labors
With much felicity;
Their joy in trouble savors
Of perfect piety.

Cheerfulness

Doth express
A settled pious mind,
Which is not prone to grudging,
From murm

rmuring refined.

ANN COLLIXS.

SPRING.

WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND.

THE Time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill, And dons a rich embroidery

Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky,

Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For Time hath laid his mantle by

Of wind and rain and icy chill.
River and fountain, brook and rill,
Bespangled o'er with livery gay
Of silver droplets, wind their way.
All in their new apparel vie,
For Time hath laid his mantle by.

CHARLES OF ORLEAYS.

RETURN OF SPRING.

[Translation.) God shield ye, heralds of the spring, Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings hearl

Through the green woods and dales.
God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,

And he whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,

I welcome ye once more.
God shield ye, bright embroidered train
Of butterflies, that on the plain

Of each sweet herblet sip;
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow

To kiss them with your lip.

wren.

A hundred thousand times I call

Shall we have, for laughter A hearty welcome on ye all ;

Freely shouted to the woods, tillall the echoes ring. This season how I love

Send the children up
This merry din on every shore —

To the high hill's top,
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar Or deep into the wood's recesses,
Forbade my steps to rove.

To woo spring's caresses.
PIERRE RONSARD (French).

See, the birds together,
In this splendid weather,

Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as
MARCH.

men);

And each feathered neighbor The cock is crowing,

Enters on his labor, The stream is flowing,

Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter,

As the year advances, The green field sleeps in the sun ;

Trees their naked branches The oldest and youngest

Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green apAre at work with the strongest ;

parel. The cattle are grazing,

Insect and wild beast Their heads never raising ;

Keep no Lent, but feast; There are forty feeding like one !

Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy's

increased, Like an army defeated

And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud The snow hath retreated,

carol. And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill ;

Ah, come and woo the spring; The plough-boy is whooping - anon-anon ! List to the birds that sing; There's joy on the mountains;

Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; There's life in the fountains;

Pluck the daisies, Small clouds are sailing,

Sing their praises ; Blue sky prevailing ;

Friendship with the flowers some noble thought The rain is over and gone !

begets.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Come forth and gather these sweet elves,
(More witching are they than the fays of old,)

Come forth and gather them yourselves;
SONG OF SPRING.

Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more

than gold. LAUD the first spring daisies ; Chant aloud their praises ;

Come, come into the wood; Send the children up

Pierce into the bowers To the high hill's top ;

Of these gentle flowers, Tax not the strength of their young hands Which, not in solitude To increase your lands.

Dwell, but with each other keep society : Gather the primroses,

And with a simple piety, Make handfuls into posies ;

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good Take them to the little girls who are at work in Or, upon summer earth, mills:

To die, in virgin worth ;. Pluck the violets blue,

Or to be strewn before the bride, Ah, pluck not a few !

And the bridegroom, by her siile. Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils ?

Come forth on Sundays ;

Come forth on Mondays ; Give the children holidays,

Come forth on any day ; (And let these be jolly days,)

Children, come forth to play :Grant freedom to the children in this joyous Worship the God of Nature in your childhood ; spring;

Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Better men, hereafter,

Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever;

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