law,

awe.

pride,

And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide.

There all around the gentlest breezes stray,

There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined,

Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,

With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of humankind pass by:
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's
hand,

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control,-
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights

to scan,

And learns to venerate himself as man.

steel;

endear!

But when contending chiefs blockade the

throne,

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays

own;

When I behold a factious band agree

To call it freedom when themselves are free,

Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,

gerous ways,

Where beasts with man divided empire

claim,

the law,

The pensive exile, bending with his woe,

roam

Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,

shine,

And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind; Why have I stray'd from pleasure and re

pose

To seek a good each government bestows? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,

How small, of all that human hearts endure,

That part which laws or kings can cause

or cure!

ore?

Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,

Like flaring tapers brightening as they

waste?

Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets

rose

In barren, solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling, long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,
The modest matron, and the blushing
maid,

Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,

To traverse climes beyond the western main,

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,

And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in Heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

A DREAM.

ALL yesterday I was spinning,
Sitting alone in the sun;

And the dream that I spun was so lengthy,
It lasted till day was done.

I heeded not cloud or shadow
That flitted over the hill,

Or the humming-bees, or the swallows,
Or the trickling of the rill.

I took the threads for my spinning,
All of blue summer air,

And a flickering ray of sunlight

Was woven in here and there.

The shadows grew longer and longer,
The evening wind pass'd by,
And the purple splendor of sunset
Was flooding the western sky.

But I could not leave my spinning,
For so fair my dream had grown,
I heeded not, hour by hour,

How the silent day had flown.

At last the gray shadows fell round me, And the night came dark and chill, And I rose and ran down the valley, And left it all on the hill.

I went up the hill this morning,

To the place where my spinning lay,— There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remain'd of my dream to-day.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist:
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

SONNET ON SLEEP.

COME sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace,

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of

woe;

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re lease,

The indifferent judge between the high and low!

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease

Of those fierce darts Despair doth at me
throw.

Oh make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest
bed,

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to
light,

A rosy garland and a weary head;

And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in

me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY GARRICK AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747.

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes

youth:

Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth.

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the

morrow;

Never let rising sun approve you liars

To add more grief to aggravate my

sorrow:

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,

rose;

Each change of many-color'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain; His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,

And unresisted passion storm'd the breast. Then Jonson came, instructed from the

school

To please in method, and invent by rule; His studious patience and laborious art,

dain.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

Cold approbation gave the lingering bays; For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.