POETICAL PORTRAITS.

SHAKSPEARE.

His was the wizard spell The spirit to enchain ; His grasp o'er Nature fell, Creation owned his reign.

MILTON.

His spirit was the home

Of aspiration high!

A temple, whose huge dome. Was hidden in the sky.

THOMSON.

The Seasons, as they roll,

Shall bear thy name along,

And, graven on the soul

Of Nature, live thy song.

GRAY.

Soaring on pinions proud,

The lightnings of his eye

Scar the black thunder-cloud, He passes swiftly by.

SCOTT.

He sings, and lo! Romance Starts from its mouldering urn, While Chivalry's bright lance And nodding plumes return.

WILSON.

His strains like holy hymn
Upon the ear doth float,

Or voice of cherubim

In mountain vale remote.

HEMANS.

To bid the big tear start Unchallenged from its shrine, And thrill the quivering heart With pity's voice, are thine.

SHELLEY.

A solitary rock

In a far distant sea,

Rent by the thunder's shock,

An emblem stands of thee!

HOGG.

Clothed in the rainbow's beam, 'Mid strath and pastoral glen,

He sees the fairies gleam

Far from the haunts of men.

BYRON.

Black clouds his forehead bound,
And at his feet were flowers:
Mirth, madness, magic found
In him their keenest powers.

MOORE.

Crowned with perennial flowers,
By wit and genius wove,
He wanders through the bowers
Of fancy and of love.

POETRY EVERY WHERE.

THERE'S poetry among the rocks,
Upon the cloud-capt mountains:
There's music in each tiny rill

That flows from springing fountains.

And all is poetry divine,

And all is wondrous fair,

For He who built the heavenly dome
Is always present there.

There's poetry in the deep vale,

Where the mineral water gushes,

And the crimson flowers in

sunny

Reflect the morning blushes.

bowers

And there, in silence and in shade,

Nature is passing fair;

For He who made the beauteous world
Is always present there.

The forest is all poetry,

Where the honey bees are singing,
And the golden spider his bower of love,
'Neath the green branch, is spinning.
And the rosy morn and purple eve
The umbrageous herbage share,
For He who lit the soft, pale moon,
Is always present there.

There's poetry on the deep sea,

Where the mountain waves are roaring; And the young billows clap their hands, Rejoicing and adoring.

And the phosph'rous sea and ocean's caves
Are in their nature fair;

For He who made the mighty winds
Is always present there.

There's poetry in the dark clouds,

Where the chain-lightning's flaming;
And the thunder's voice is heard aloud,
Its Maker's power proclaiming.
But o'er those clouds, and in that sky,
All shines divinely fair;

For He who forged the thundrous bolt
Is always present there.

There's poetry among the winds,

Where they kiss the spring's first flowers;