And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.

Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!

No clouds, no vapors intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood:

His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both, a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.

"T is now the raven's bleak abode ;
'T is now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall;
Yet Time has seen - that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow

;

Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate !
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm, -
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie;
What streaks of meadow cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

O, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see ;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul.
"T is thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,

And with music fill the sky,

Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill; Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search; she is not here!
In vain you search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

-

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Farmarked with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear

wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE SHADED WATER.

WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,

I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys

And sit me down beside this little brook;

Of merry elves bespangled all with dew,

Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,
I fling the hours away.

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore,

A gracious couch the root of an old oak
Whose branches yield it moss and canopy -
Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke
Secure, shall never be resigned by me ;
It hangs above the stream that idly flies,
Heedless of any eyes.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent,
While every sense on earnest mission sent,
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour,

Returns, thought laden, back with bloom and flower

Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil.

And still the waters trickling at my feet

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees,

Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,
And with awakened vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my "winsome Marrow," "Whate'er betide, we 'll turn aside, And see the braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow; 't is their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?
"What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere,

As worthy of your wonder."

Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn;
My true-love sighed for sorrow,

And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path and open strath

We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and homebred kine partake
The sweets of Burn Mill meadow;
The swan still on St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !

And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy 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 even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, and know'st 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?

BYRON.

On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, The loveliest breezes breathe;

So free and pure the air,

His breath seems floating there.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye,
Still vales and meadows lie;

The soaring glacier's ice
Gleams like a paradise.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow;
There the bold chamois go;

On giddy crags they stand,
And drink from his own hand.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow,
The sheep and wild goats go;
There, in the solitude,

He fills their hearts with food.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd;

His Shepherd is the Lord;

For he who feeds the sheep

Will sure his offspring keep.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. KRUMMACHER (German). Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS.

THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

NIGHT was again descending, when my mule, That all day long had climbed among the clouds, Higher and higher still, as by a stair

Let down from heaven itself, transporting me,
Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door
So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard;
That door which ever on its hinges moved
To them that knocked, and nightly sends abroad
Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch,
Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me,
All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb;
And a lay-brother of the Hospital,

Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits
The distant echoes gaining on his ear,
Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand,
While I alighted.

On the same rock beside it stood the church, Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity; The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour, Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, "All ye who hear, whatever be your work, Stop for an instant, move your lips in prayer!" And just beneath it, in that dreary dale,