Till glimpses more sublime,

Of things unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGfellow.

THE CLOUD.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain;

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves, remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nurseling of the sky; pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

PEROY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

DRINKING.

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair;
The sea itself, (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less,)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal "health" goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high-
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I;
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;

The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell;
The honey-suckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the del.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

81

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

Up the dale and down the bourne,

O'er the meadow swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing

At the frolic things we say, While aside her cheek we're rushing, Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,-
As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain, O'er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain, Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.