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When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea."

And grave with wonder gazed about ;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led ;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornéd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before ; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense By dreary-voicéd clements, The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone. As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank, We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back, The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout back-stick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam. On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnisheci room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became, And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. The crane and pendent trammels showed, The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ; While childish fancy, prompt to tell The meaning of the miracle, Whispered the old rhyme : Under the tree,

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about.
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed,
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

A DROP OF DEW.

See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 't was born)

Round in itself encloses,

And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies ;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere ;

Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure ;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,

No enemy,

And to the skies exhales it back again.

Seeking the food he eats, So the soul, that drop, that ray,

And pleased with what he gets, Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Come hither, come hither, come hither Could it within the human flower be seen,

Here shall he see
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, But winter and rough weather.

And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts

, express that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note, The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound,

AMIENS. And I'll sing it.

JAQ. Thus it goes :-
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,

If it do come to pass,
Yet receiving in the day.

That any man turn ass,
Dark beneath, but bright above;

Leaving his wealth and ease,
Here aining, there in love.

A stubborn will to please,
How loose and easy hence to go !

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame ! How girt and ready to ascend !

Here shall he see Moving but on a point below,

Gross fools as he, It all about does upwards bend.

An if he will come to me. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealedandchill, – AMI. What's that “ ducdame" ? Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run JAQ. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

into a circle. I'll go sleep, if I can ; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

ANDREW MARVELL.

SHAKESPEARE.

NATURE.

THE GREENWOOD.
The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, O, WHEN 't is summer weather,
Because my feet find measure with its call; And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, The waters clear is huiming round,
For I am known to them, both great and small. And the cuckoo sings unseen,
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows And the leaves are waving green,
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;

0, then 't is sweet, And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,

In some retreat, And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; To hear the murmuring dove, For he who with his Maker walks aright, With those whom on earth alone we love, Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; And to wind through the greenwood together. His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Each object wear the dress that then it wore;

But when 't is winter weather, And he, as when erect in soul he stood,

And crosses grieve,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

And friends deceive,
JONES VERY.

And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,

0, then 't is sweet UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

To sit and sing AS YOU LIKE IT."

Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,

We roamed through the greenwood together.
UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

RETIREMENT.
Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather.

BENEATH this stony roof reclined,

I soothe to peace my pensive mind ;
Who doth ambition shun,

And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Aud loves to live i' the sun,

Embowering elms their umbrage wave,

FROM

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.

No enemy,

And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstained with wine,
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits, lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she fies,
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shru mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embosséd book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed.
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state ?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot ?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray ;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?

THOMAS WARTON.

COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE.

Come to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the summer sing,
Where cares and toil and sadness cease !
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more !
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love ?
Thee the stream that gushes clear,
Thee the birds that carol near,
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby ;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares and toil and sadness cease.

SEE, O SEE

SEE, O) see !
How every tree,
Every bower,

Every flower,
A new life gives to others' joys ;

While that I
Grief-stricken lie,
Nor can meet

With any sweet
But what faster mine destroys.
What are all the senses' pleasures
When the mind has lost all measures ?

Hear, O hear!
How sweet and clear
The nightingale

And water's fall
In concert join for others' ear;

While to me,
For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,
And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures
When the soul has lost all measures ?

LORD BRISTOL

DOVER CLIFF.

FROM

KING LEAR.”

Come on, sir ; here's the place : stand still

How fearful And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful

trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight; the murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. “I'll look no more ; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

SHAKESPEARE

THE OCEAN.

SONNET.

The ocean at the bidding of the moon
Forever changes with his restless tide :
Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon
With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES

I steal by lawns and grassy plots :

I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers,

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows e I make the netted sunbeam danco

Against my sandy shallows

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses ;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever,

ALFRED TENNYSON.

GRONGAR HILL.

(The Vale of the Towy embraces, in its winding course of hitteen miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less cultivated than the Vale of Usk, its woodland views are more romantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces of a Roman Camp; Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the opposite side of the river: Merlin's chair recalls Spenser; and a farm-house near the foot of Llanguminor Hill brings back the memory of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the cave of Merlin among the dark woods of Dinevawr.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye !
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rili,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind,

And semblance of return. Anon from home
He issues forth anew, high ridged and free,
The gentlest murmur of his seething foam
Like armies whispering where great echoes be.
0, leave me here upon this beach to rove,
Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone !
A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly

thrown,
And reaching those on mountain heights above,
To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own ?)
A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love,

CHARLES TENNYSON.

SONG OF THE BROOK.

I come from haunts of coot and hern:

I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river ;
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

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And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate !
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow !
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies ;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires ;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees umnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood :
His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below ;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both, a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.
"T is now the raven's bleak abode ;
'T is now the apartment of the toad ;
And there the fox securely feeds ;
And there the poisonous aider breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall;
Yet Time has seen that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow

Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate !
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view !
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low ;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower ;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie ;
What streaks of meadow cross the eye !
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem ;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear ;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a clou ly day.

0, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see ;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul.
"T is thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie ;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deer;
While the shepherd charms his sheer;
While the birds unbounded fly,

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