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And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man know
The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
THE CLOUD. - Shelley.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve 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 't is my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits ;
It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains ;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
Ånd his burning plumes outspread,
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 be.
neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer ;
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
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.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. — Tennyson.
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on
To the haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. - Burns.
WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care ;
And hoary was his hair.
Began the reverend sage ;
Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Too soon thou hast began
The miseries of man.
“The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride,-
Twice forty times return,
That man was made to mourn.
- O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the
sway ; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
“ Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right: