TO SENECA LAKE.

N thy fair bosom, silver lake,

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Like clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O, could I ever sweep the oar,

When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er!

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

F

POW does the water

Come down at Lodore!"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;

And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,

To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 't was in my vocation

For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was laureate

To them and the King.
From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,

Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,

Hurry-skurry.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging

As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing.
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,

And shining and twining,

And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,

And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning.
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and kurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

iding and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riding and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shaftering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming.and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump-
ing,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE RHINE.

'HE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells

Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy, wert thou with me.

And peasant-girls with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers

Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of RhineThy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me,

Though long before thy hand they touch
I know that they must withered be—
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine e'en here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And knowest them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! LORD BYRON.

SONG OF THE RIVER

LEAR and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle and foaming weir;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child!

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow ;
Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child!

Strong and free, strong and free,
The flood-gates are open, away to the sea:
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
And I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again
Undefiled for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

TWEEDSIDE.

HAT beauties does Flora disclose! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feathered folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?

Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare : Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? WILLIAM CRawford.

NIAGARA.

LOW on forever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow on, Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet.-And he doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him Eternally,-bidding the lip of man Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise.

The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem,—and those wrecking fires That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, On thine unfathomed page.—Each leafy bough That lifts itself within thy proud domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, And tremble at the baptism.-Lo! yon birds Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing

Amid thy foam and mist.-'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem-or lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath-
Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud,
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof.—But as for us-it seems
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak
Familiarly of thee.—Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to a tablet of a song,
Were profanation.

Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty;
And while it rushes with delirious joy
To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step,

And check its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

THE FOUNTAIN.

NTO the sunshine,

Full of light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn to night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!
Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward
Never a-weary!

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,
Upward or downward
Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,
Ever the same ;—
Ceaseless, aspiring;

Ceaseless, content;
Darkness or sunshine
Thy element.
Glorious fountain!
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

"HE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, The sound of many waters; and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His ages in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O, what are the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. JOHN G. C. Brainard.

INVOCATION TO RAIN IN SUMMER.

GENTLE, gentle summer rain,

Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine

To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies;
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies
The earth looks up, in vain, for thee
For thee-for thee, it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,
And soften all the hills with mist,

O falling dew. from burning dreams

By thee shall herb and flower be kissed,
And earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT.

THE BROOK-SIDE.

WANDERED by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow-
The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;

I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not-no, he came not-
The night came on alone-
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred-
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder-
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer-nearer-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

LORD HOUGHTON

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

N Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war, The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,

May numerous herds and flocks be seen:
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,

And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

T. GEORGE Smollett.

THE LATTER RAIN.

'HE latter rain-it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid
waste

As if it would each root's lost strength repair;
It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell;
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops;
Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ;
And all that once received the early rain
Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

JONES VERY.

SONG OF THE BROOK.

COME from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges;
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling;
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel;

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river ';

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;

I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

ALFRED TENNYSON

LITTLE STREAMS.

ITTLE streams are light and shadow,
Flowing through the pasture meadow,
Flowing by the green way-side,
Through the forest dim and wide,
Through the hamlet still and small-
By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruined abbey still;
Turning here and there a mill,
Bearing tribute to the river-
Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing-
Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink,
Fearless of their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low;
And between, the sunshine, glancing,
In their little waves, is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a niany,
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head, with eye of jet;
And the water-violet.
There the flowering-rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And, in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery,
Sound forth welcomes to the weary,
Flowing on from day to day,
Without stint and without stay;
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old time pilgrims drank-