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Who bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh’st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm,
Who flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Who light'st thy lamp on the mane of the wave-
To thee !-to thee!-we sing to thee,
God of the western wind! God of the sea!

To thee, who leadest forth in the air,
The things that be not, are not there,
That rise like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
Who mov'st thy proud and thy pale chaperoon,
Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon–
To thee!—to thee !—we sing to thee,
God of the western wind! God of the sea !

To thee, who bid'st those mountains of brine
Softly to sink in the fair moonshine,
And spreadest thy couch of mellow light,
To lure to thy bosom the Queen of the night,
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast of blue-

To thee !—to thee !-we sing to thee,
God of the western wind! God of the sea !

To thee, whose holy calm is spread
For nymphs of the ocean's wooing bed,
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rock'd and murmuring still,
And the solan's young and the lines of foam
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home-
To thee !—to thee!-we sing to thee,
God of the western wind! God of the sea !

ANGEL'S MORNING SONG TO THE

SHEPHERD.

WAKEN, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew,
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken-
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the rail amid the clover,
O’er the moon-fern whews the plover,

ANGEL'S MORNING SONG TO THE SHEPHERD. 295

Bat has hid and heath-cock crow'd,

Courser neigh’d and cattle low'd,
Kid and lamb the lair forsaken-
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

MARY GRAY.

Some say that my Mary Gray is dead,

And that I in this world shall see her never;

Some say she is laid on her cold death-bed,

The prey of the grave and of death for ever! Ah, they know little of my dear maid,

Or kindness of her spirit's giver ; For every night she is by my side

By the morning bower, or the moonlight river.

My Mary was bonny when she was here,

When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling; Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear,

And her form all virgin forms excelling. But oh, if they saw my Mary now,

With ber looks of pathos and of feeling, They would see a cherub's radiant brow,

To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling.

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