Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores- For when after the rain, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. SHELLEY. THE SAXON TONGUE. Now gather all our Saxon bards, To celebrate the triumphs of Our own good Saxon tongue; For, stronger far than hosts that march It goes with Freedom, Thought, and Truth, Stout Albion learns its household lays On every surf-worn shore, And Scotland hears its echoing far And warms with eloquence and song On many a wide and swarming deck It spreads where winter piles deep snows Eternal summer reigns. It glads Acadia's misty coasts, And bides where, gay with early flowers. It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, In fields that curb old Ganges' flood, It wakes up Aden's flashing eyes, It dwells where Afric's southmost cape Meets oceans broad and blue, And Nieuveld's rugged mountains gird That, while its praise you sing, It quickens lands whose meteor-lights And lands for which the Southern Cross And glorious Greeks admired; With Shakspeare's deep and wondrous verse, And Milton's loftier mind; With Alfred's laws, and Newton's lore— To cheer and bless mankind. Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, And error flies away, As vanishes the mist of night Before the star of day! But grand as are the victories Whose monuments we see, These are but as the dawn which speaks Of noontide yet to be ! Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame! Go forth, prepared in every clime When Christian states, grown just and wise, When earth's oppressed and savage tribes All taught to prize these English words— LYONS. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose agèd step "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the reverend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or, haply, pressed with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth with me to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors Oh, man! while in thy early years, Misspending all thy precious hours, Which tenfold force give Nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-oh, ill-matched pair!-Show man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of Fate, Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly bless'd : But, oh! what crowds in every land, Through weary life this lesson learn- Many and sharp the num'rous ills And man, whose heaven-erected face Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor o'er-laboured wight, |