Whose lip mature is ever new? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth " IMAGINATION. Break the mesh JOHN KEATS. FROM PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes MARK AKENSIDE. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN. I DREAMED that as I wandered by the way Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring O BLEST of heaven, whom not the languid There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint ox-lips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen ! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen ! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, -a right jolly old elf; And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, CLEMENT C. MOORE. THE FROST. THE Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, In silence I'll take my way. I will not go like that blustering train, Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair, "Now, just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he ; "This costly pitcher I 'll burst in three, And the glass of water they 've left for me Shall tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking." THE CLOUD. MISS GOULD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain; And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder; 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; FANCY IN NUBIBUS. O, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea To make the shifting clouds be what you please, beneath, Its ardors 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 orbéd maiden with white fire laden, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, Like a swarm of golden bees, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, Or let the easily persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould Or, listening to the tide with closed sight, Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. THOU still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape! What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, |