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Upon the river's rippling face,
Flash after flash, the white
Broke up in many a shallow place;
The rest was soft and bright.

By chance my eye fell on the stream:
-How many a marvellous power
Sleeps in us-sleeps, and doth not dream!
This knew I in that hour.

For then my heart, so full of strife,
No more was in me stirred;
My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.

I and the river, we were one:
The shade beneath the bank,
I felt it cool; the setting sun
Into my spirit sank.

A rushing thing in power serene
I was; the mystery

I felt of having ever been,
'And being still to be.

Was it a moment or an hour?
I know not; but I mourned
When, from that realm of awful power,

I to these fields returned.

THOMAS BURBIDGE.

MAN.

Y God, I heard this day

MY

That none doth build a stately

habitation

But he that means to dwell therein.

What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay.

And more.

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He is a tree, yet bears no fruit; A beast, yet is, or should be, more: Reason and speech we only bring.

Parrots

may thank us if they are not mute,
They go upon the score.

Man is. all symmetry,

Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And all to all the world besides :

Each part may call the farthest, brother; For head with foot hath private amity,

And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far

But man hath caught and kept it as his prey.
His eyes dismount the highest star ;
He is in little all the sphere.

Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow,

The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow. Nothing we see but means our good,

As our delight, or as our treasure. The whole is either our cupboard of food Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain which the sun withdraws :
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty :

Waters united are our navigation;

Distinguished, our habitation;

Below, our drink; above, our meat : Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? Then how are all things neat!

More servants wait on man

Than he'll take notice of: in every path

He treads down that which doth befriend him When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, Thou hast

So brave a Palace built, oh dwell in it,
That it may dwell with Thee at last!

Till then, afford us so much wit

That, as the world serves us, we may serve Thee, And both thy servants be.

GEORGE HERBERT.

I

IN EARLY SPRING.

HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts.
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think.
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure-
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from Heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

WORDSWORTH.

EACH AND ALL.

LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown

Of thee from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows on the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home in his nest at even ;-
He sings the song, but it pleases not now;
For I did not bring home the river and sky.
He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;

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