Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, There, wrench'd but lately from its throne, Above, the forest tops are bright The screening branches, and a glow Down the dark stems, and breaks below; The mingled shadows off are roll'd, The sylvan floor is bathed in gold: Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, Display their shades of brown and green: The robin, brooding in her nest. Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast; I see the rabbit upward bound, With pointed ears an instant look, Then scamper to the darkest nook, Where, with crouch'd limb, and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by. A narrow vista, carpeted With rich green grass, invites my tread⚫ Here showers the light in golden dots, The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum Whirrs to the sheltering branches near; Here stretch'd, the pleasant turf I press, Sun-streaks, and glancing-wings, and sky, And water-tones that tinkle near, THE SEA-IN CALM. BY BARRY CORNWALL. Look what immortal floods the sunset pours Upon us!-Mark! how still (as though in dreams Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems! How silent are the winds! No billow roars: But all is tranquil as Elysian shores! The silver margin which aye runneth round The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound: Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors! What is the giant of the ocean dead, Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun? No; he reposes! Now his toils are done, More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be. TO A SKY-LARK. BY SHELLEY. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! That from heaven, or near it, In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds they flow not As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heedeth not. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul, in secret hour, With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: |