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The raging fire, the roaring wind,

Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find

Thy Spirit's viewless way.

Two worlds are ours : 'tis only Sin

Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within

Plain as the sea and sky.
Thou, who hast given me eyes to see

And love this sight so fair,
Give me a heart to find out Thee,
And read Thee every where.

JOHN KEBLE.

TO A SKYLARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel pilgrim of the sky

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still. To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler —that love-prompted strain, ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar but never roam,
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

WORDSWORTH.

THE SKYLARK.

HOW

OW the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair
That leads thro' cloudy gates from heaven to

earth,
And, all alone in the empyreal air,
Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth ;

How far he seems, how far,

With the light upon his wings;
Is it a bird, or star,

That shines and sings ?

What matter if the days be dark and frore,

That sunbeam tells of other days to be,
And, singing in the light that floods him o'er,
In joy he overtakes Futurity;

Under cloud-arches vast
He
peeps,

and sees behind
Great Summer coming fast

Adown the wind !

And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers,

In streams of gold and purple he is drowned ; Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound;

And now he issues thro',

He scales a cloudy tower,
Faintly, like falling dew,

His fast notes shower.

Let every wind be hushed, that I may hear

The wondrous things he tells the world below; Things that we dream of he is watching near, Hopes that we never dreamed he would bestow.

Alas! the storm hath rolled

Back the gold gates again,
Or surely he had told

All heaven to men !

So the victorious Poet sings alone,

And fills with light his solitary home, And thro' that glory sees new worlds foreshown, And hears high songs and triumphs yet to come;

He waves the air of time

With thrills of golden chords,
And makes the world to climb

On linked words.

What if his hair be grey, his eyes be dim,

If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold; Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him,

Truth never fails, nor beauty waxeth old;

More than he tells, his eyes

Behold, his spirit hears,
Of grief, and joy, and sighs

'Twixt joy and tears.
Blest is the man who with the sound of song

Can charm away the heartache, and forget
The frost of penury, and the stings of wrong,
And drown the fatal whisper of regret!

Darker are the abodes

Of kings, tho' his be poor,
While fancies, like the gods,

Pass through his door.
Singing thou scalest heaven upon thy wings,

Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies ;
He maketh his own sunrise while he sings,
And turns the dusty earth to Paradise ;

I see thee sail along
Far
up
the

sunny streams,
Unseen, I hear his song,
I see his dreams.

FREDERICK TENNYSON.

FLOWER AND FRUIT.

A

LITTLE child lay on its mother's knee
In shade of summer boughs; and that fond

mother
Waved in one hand the flowers of a wild tree,

And a fair branch of fruitage in the other.

Longing he lay, and glancing his blue eyes

From one to other—for his will was loth To fix its choice-he sighed his first-born sighs, Stretched out both arms, and would have clutched

them both.

A grey old man peeped thro' the leaves, and blessed

That lovely child-then sadly turned apart, And, sitting down a little from the rest,

Sighed, as he murmured thus to his own heart :

Within the violet's cup no nectar flows,

Tho' its rich breath fills the delighted air ; When the ripe fruit is glistening on the boughs

The lovely blossom is no longer there :

When the young sun is arming him at morn,

His beauty makes sweet rainbows in the sky; But, when his wheels are up the zenith borne,

He hath no power for such soft magistry:

When the swift heart of the enchanted boy

Speaks through his downy cheeks and starry eyes, An hour of love is worth eternal joy,

And beauty all the treasures of the wise ;

But when the time-worn heart begins to bud

With leaves of truth, like the autumnal green, No pulse of rapture stirs the drowsy blood,

Scarce stirring with the pulses that have been.

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