again. The moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and laughest at the storm.

But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth!

Age is dark and unlovely. It is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills. The blast of the north is on the plain, the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey. FROM OSSIAN.

CCLXXXVIII. THE NIGHTS.

O THE Summer Night, has a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne;

While the sweet winds load her, with garlands of odor,
From the bud to the rose o'erblown!

But the Autumn Night has a piercing sight,

And a step both strong and free;

And a voice for wonder, like the wrath of the thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night is all cold and white,

And she singeth a song of pain;

Till the wild bee hummeth, and the warm spring cometh,
Then she dies in a night of rain.

Night bringeth sleep to the forests deep,

The forest bird to its nest;

To care, bright hours, and dreams of flowers,
And that balm to the weary,-Rest.

FROM PROCTER.

CCLXXXIX.-NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose!

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams,

The gay romance of life;

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far,

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plow the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Savior oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease;

Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends:-such death be mine!

FROM MONTGOMERY.

CCXC.-APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

O THOU vast Ocean! ever sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity !

Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and met in strife.

The earth hath naught of this.

No chance nor change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-waken air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go. Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow; But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their viewless home, And come again, and vanish. The young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, Dies in his strong manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the Summer flies.

Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,

A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,

A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds

Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backward and forward by the shifting wind,

How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with Heaven.

O, wonderful thou art, great element,
And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,
And lovely in repose. Thy summer form

Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves

Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,

Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach:
"Eternity, Eternity, and Power."

FROM PROCTOR.

CCXCI. THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain-drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air;

There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter.

There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea,
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own.

And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore:
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

FROM PERCIVAL.

CCXCII.-THE MILLER.

CHARACTERS.-The King, the Miller, and a courtier.

King. (Enters alone, wrapped in a cloak.) No, no! this can be no public road, that's certain. I have lost my way, undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect; I can not see better than another man, nor walk so well. When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men? His wisdom knows not His power a beggar's

which is north and which is south.
dog would bark at, and the beggar himself would not bow
to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up
with these false attributes! Well, in losing the monarch,
I have found the man. But, hark! somebody sure is near.
Will my majesty protect me? No.

What is it best to do?
Throw majesty aside then, and let manhood do it.

(Enter the Miller.)

Miller. I believe I hear the rogue.

Who's there?

King.

No rogue, I assure you.

Miller.

Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that

King.

(Aside.) Lie, lie! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. (Aloud.) Upon my word I don't, sir.

Miller. Come, come, sir, confess. You have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you?

King. No, indeed. I owe the king more respect. I heard the report of a gun, to be sure, and was afraid some robbers might have been near.

Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name?

King. Name?

Miller. Name! ay, name.

You have a name, haven't

you? Where do you come from? What is your business here?

King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man.