From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 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, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 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, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 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; And the opposing shore--Eternity! 'Why dost thou watch the wave? The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay.' Hush'd on the Angel's breast O Angel, to thy breast?' 'The child God gave me, in the Long Ago. Mine all upon the earth, 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 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, The name of honour more than I fear death. Shakspeare. UP-HILL.-Miss Rossetti. DOES the road wind up-hill all the way? Will the day's journey take the whole long day? But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin: Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.-7. G. Whittier. PIPES of the misty moorlands, Not the braes of broom and heather, Dear to the Lowland reaper, Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept ; |