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A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still
As when, at evening, on that hill,
While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katherine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.

I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name,
From him who once his standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons,
To him who, when a younger son,
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.

That last half-stanza, – it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup ;
The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world, is gone;
And Alnwick ’s but a market town,
And this, alas ! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots,
Men in the coal and cattle line;
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. -

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,
So dazzling to the dreaming boy;
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of knights, but not of the round table,
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy;
'T is what “Our President,” Monroe,
Has called “the era of good feeling”;
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,
And leave off cattle-stealing:
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglass in red herrings;
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild or the Barings.

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Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky And wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane !

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails. Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come ; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come he is come ! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled Giant of air we bid thee hail — How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Darker, — still darker ' the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud 1 You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that ?—'t is the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds !—ye are lost to my eyes.

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
And I, cut off from the world, remain

Alone with the terrible hurricane. - WiLLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

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To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed.

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FAR to the right where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends. Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, , Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;

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