JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

I.

THE POET.

DEEP sunk in thought, he sat beside the river,
Its wave in liquid lapses glided by,

Nor watched, in crystal depth, his vacant eye
The willow's high o'erarching foliage quiver.
From dream to shadowy dream returning ever,
He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge;

His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge Streamed visionary onward, pausing never. As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving; So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove

A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.

II.

NIGHT.

AM I not all alone? - The world is still

In passionless slumber, not a tree but feels.
The far-pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by. Yon broad bare hill

Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars
Seem eyes deep fixed in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell, no other sound

But the owl's unfrequent moan. - Their airy cars The winds have stationed on the mountain peaks. Am I not all alone? A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all alone : Nature is round thee with her banded powers, And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours;

Mind and its kingdom now are all thine own."

III.

WINTER is now around me, and the snow
Has thrown its mantle over herb, tree, flower;
The icicle has tapestried the bower,

And in a crystal sheet the rivers flow;

And mustering from the north, at evening blow
The hollow winds, and through the star-lit hour
Shake from the icy wood a rattling shower,
That tinkles on the glassy crust below;

And Morning rises in a saffron glow,

Pouring her splendor through the fretted grove,

In tints that round the heart enchantment throw,
Like what the Graces in their girdle wove;
And shining on the mountain's frosted brow,
That o'er the gilded landscape looks afar,
Her kindling beams the virgin mantle strow
With drops of gold that twinkle like a star!

IV.

THE blue heaven spreads before me with its keen

And countless eyes of brightness, — worlds are there, The boldest spirit cannot spring, and dare

The peopled universe that burns between

This earth and nothing. Thought can wing its way
Swifter than lightning-flashes or the beam
That hastens on the pinions of the morn;
But quicker than the glowing dart of day
It tires, and faints along the starry stream,
A wave of suns through countless ether borne,
Though infinite, eternal! yet one power
Sits on the Almighty Centre, whither tend
All worlds, and beings from time's natal hour,
Till suns and all their satellites shall end.

JONES VERY.

I.

THE ROBIN.

THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest,
Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by,
Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest,
Or he thy young unfinished cottage spy;
All will not heed thee on that swinging bough,
Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves,
Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now,
For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves;
All will not hear thy sweet outpouring joy,

That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song;

For over-anxious cares their souls employ,

That else upon thy music borne along,

And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer,

Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to

share.