A STILL PLACE.

INDER what beechen shade, or silent oak,

Lies the mute sylvan now, mysterious Pan? Once, (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran Clear from their fountains,) as the morning broke, 'Tis said the Satyr with Apollo spoke,

And to harmonious strife with his wild reed

Challenged the god, whose music was indeed

Divine, and fit for heaven. Each played, and woke Beautiful sounds to life,-deep melodies;

One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care

That flocks and birds all answered him; and one

Shook his immortal showers upon the air.
That music hath ascended to the sun;

But where the other? Speak, ye dells and trees!

LIFE.

JOME, track with me this little vagrant rill, Wandering its wild course from the mountain's breast;

Now with a brink fantastic, heather-drest,

And playing with the stooping flowers at will;
Now moving scarce, with noiseless step and still;
Anon it seems to weary of its rest,

And hurries on, leaping with sparkling zest
Adown the ledges of the broken hill.

So let us live. Is not the life well spent

Which loves the lot that kindly Nature weaves

For all inheriting, or adorning, earth?
Which throws light pleasure over true content,
Blossoms with fruitage, flowers as well as leaves,
And sweetens wisdom with a taste of mirth?

E hasten to the dead! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?

O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess
All that anticipation feigneth fair!

Thou vainly curious mind, which wouldest guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go,
And that which never yet was known wouldst know-
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,
Seeking alike from happiness and woe

A refuge in the cavern of grey death?

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you

Hope to inherit in the grave below?

TO THE NILE.

ONTH after month the gathered rains descend
Drenching yon secret Æthiopian dells,

And from the desert's ice-girt pinnacles

Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend.

Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells

By Nile's aërial urn, with rapid spells

Urging its waters to their mighty end.

O'er Egypt's land of memory floods are level,

And they are thine, O Nile-and well thou knowest

That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil

And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou flowest.

Beware, O Man-for knowledge must to thee

Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.

OZYMANDIAS.

MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear :
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.