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Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight; There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night. — Bryant.
A wind came up out of the sea,
It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
And hurried landward far away,
It said unto the forest, “Shout!
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And o'er the farms, “O Chanticleer,
It whispered to the fields of
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
THE FINDING OF THE LYRE
There lay upon the ocean's shore
What once a tortoise served to cover. A year and more,
with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by,
As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry
Cheap burial might provide it.
It rested there to bleach or tan,
The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman
Had stumbled o’er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay,
Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray
Might serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet and dry,
As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury,
And, having mused upon it, 66 Why, here,” cried he, “ the thing of things
In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,
A wonderful invention!”
So said, so done; the chords he strained,
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,
The lyre had been discovered.
Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
In thee what songs should waken!— Lowell.
TO A WATERFOWL
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side ?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, – The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright. — Bryant.
THERE WAS A SOUND OF REVELRY
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamp shone o'er fair women and brave men;
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
Did ye not hear it?— No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined ;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet –
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Good name in man or woman, dear my lord,
'Tis something - nothing –
CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF
BY KING HENRY VIII
Nay, then farewell !
- full surely
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!