Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lure by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jg of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An cagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea br. neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when with never a stain 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 arise and unbuild it again. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. — Tennyson. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea, O, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. — Burns. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step His face was furrowed o'er with years, 66 Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, A haughty lordling's pride,- "O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law "Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want — O ill-matched pair!— Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, O, what crowds in every land, "Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still, we make ourselves And man, whose heaven-erected face Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor o'erlabored wight, "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,— By Nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish |