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,
While 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 ardours 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 rivers, 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-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I 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 unbuild it again.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.-Lord Lytton.

UPON a barren steep,

Above a stormy deep,

I saw an Angel watching the wild sea;
Earth was that barren steep,
Time was that stormy deep,

And the opposing shore--Eternity!

'Why dost thou watch the wave?
Thy feet the waters lave,

The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay.'
'Unscathed I watch the wave,
Time not the Angel's grave,
I wait until the ocean ebbs away.'

Hush'd on the Angel's breast
I saw an Infant rest,
Smiling upon the gloomy hell below.
"What is the Infant press'd,

O Angel, to thy breast?'

'The child God gave me, in the Long Ago.

Mine all upon the earth,
The Angel's angel-birth,

Smiling each terror from the howling wild.'

Never may I forget

The dream that haunts me yet,

Of PATIENCE NURSING HOPE-THE ANGEL AND
THE CHILD.

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT.--R. Garnett.

THE stream was smooth as glass, we said: 'Arise and let's away ;'

The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily took our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,

The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains,

The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away. When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,

Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? When shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see The spreading river's either bank, and surging distantly There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away. Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!

The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight

The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,

When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost? What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?

Pull back! pull back!

oar away.

The raging flood sweeps every

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this thy bay?

IF it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye, and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently;
For, let the Gods so speed me, as I love

The name of honour more than I fear death.

Shakspeare.

UP-HILL.-Miss Rossetti.

DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin:
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.-7. G. Whittier.

PIPES of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain !

Dear to the Lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,—
To the cottage and the castle,
The Scottish pipes are dear ;-
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade ;
But the sweetest of all music
The Pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept ;