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The raging fire, the roaring wind,
Thy boundless power display;
Thy Spirit's viewless way.
Two worlds are ours : 'tis only Sin
Forbids us to descry
Plain as the sea and sky.
And love this sight so fair,
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,
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
OW the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair
How far he seems, how far,
With the light upon his wings;
That shines and sings ?
What matter if the days be dark and frore,
That sunbeam tells of other days to be,
Under cloud-arches vast
and sees behind
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,
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,
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,
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,
'Twixt joy and tears.
Can charm away the heartache, and forget
Darker are the abodes
Of kings, tho' his be poor,
Pass through his door.
Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies ;
I see thee sail along
FLOWER AND FRUIT.
LITTLE child lay on its mother's knee
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
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.