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From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast ;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits,
It struggles and howls at fits;
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains ;
While he is dissolving in rains.
And 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 beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove,
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
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,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-coloured bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
I rise and unbuild again.
THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.-Lord Lytton.
UPON a barren steep,
Above a stormy deep,
Earth was that barren steep,
Time was that stormy deep,
'Why dost thou watch the wave ?
Thy feet the waters lave,
6 Unscathed I watch the wave,
Time not the Angel's grave,
Hush'd on the Angel's breast
I saw an Infant rest,
“What is the Infant press’d,
O Angel, to thy breast?'
Mine all upon the earth,
The Angels angel-birth,
Never may I forget
The dream that haunts me yet,
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
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! The raging flood sweeps every
oar away: O stream, is this thy bar of sand ? O boat, is this thy
If it be aught toward the general good,
UP-HILL.-Miss Rossetti. Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the
end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin :
You cannot miss that inn.
Those who have gone before.
They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
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 treble of the rills !
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Have heard your sweetest strain !
And plaided mountaineer,-
The Scottish pipes are dear ;
O’er mountain, loch, and glade ;
The Pipes at Lucknow played.
Louder yelled, and nearer crept ;