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At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
Ever the same it hath no ebb, no flow;
But in their stated round the seasons come
And pass like visions to their viewless home,
And come again and vanish: the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
And the wild Autumn with a look forlorn
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken when the Summer flies.
--Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,

A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds
Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind,
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven!

Thou trackless and immeasurable main !
On thee no record ever lived again,

To meet the hand that writ it; line nor lead
Hath ever fathomed thy profoundest deeps,
Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps,
King of his watery limit, who 'tis said
Can move the mighty ocean into storm.-
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element;


And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent.
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark aud winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,


Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
'Eternity, Eternity, and Power.'

Barry Cornwall.


Why dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty halls.


Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds

whistle :

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay,

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choaked up the rose, which bloomed in the way

Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle,

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelled wreath; Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy;

For the safety of Edward, and England, they fell; My fathers! the tears of your country redress you, How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of their monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to loyalty sealed.

Shades of heroes farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu !
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think
upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown :
Like you he will live, or like you he will perish:

When decayed may he mingle his dust with your own.


The heavens are cloudless, the winds are asleep,
And there is not a breath on the face of the deep;
Save the drowsy sound of the fisherman's oar,
As he heavily nears his boat to the shore.

The shepherd's blythe whistle hath ceased on the hill,
The watch-dog is mute, and the forest is still;
And the silence of ocean-of earth and of sky,
Is soft as the slumber of innocency.

Now the weary fisher hath moored his light skiff,
The seabird hath gone to his place in the cliff;
And the aspect of nature seems silent and dead;
As man's mortal part when the spirit hath fled.

The young autumn moon looks abroad o'er the scene,
Unclouded, untroubled, tranquil and serene;
And walks the blue azure, as lovely and fair

As if the dark tempest had never been there.

It is thus with man in prosperity's hour

He plucks the gay blossom from pleasure's sweet flower,

And his eye beams as joyously bright and clear

As if it had never been dhamed with a tear.

When the moonlight heavens their glories unfold,
Like a beautiful garment bedropped with gold;
And lake, and river, and ocean wave's hue
Are all of the deepest cerulean blue;

'Tis in the softness of such a sweet hour
That earthly passions relinquish their power;
Then soars the glad soul, all unfettered and free,
Through the boundless space of immensity.

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