146. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
EARLY DAWN.-SHELLEY.
THE point of one white star is quivering still
Deep in the orange light of widening morn,
Beyond the purple mountains: through a chasm
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake
Reflects it. Now it wanes: it gleams again
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air:
'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow
The roseäte sunlight quivers: hear I not
The Eolian' music of her sea-green plumes
Winnowing the crimson dawn?
DAYBREAK.-ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me!"
It hail'd the ships, and cried, "Sail cn,
Ye mariners! the night is gone!"
And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day!”
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"
It touch'd the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing!"
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow! the day is near!"
It whisper'd to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn!"
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour!"
It cross'd the church-yard with a sigh,
And said, "NoT YET! IN QUIET LIE
'Eolian, pertaining to EOLUS, the god of the winds: hence music produced by wind may be termed Æolian music.
DAY had awaken'd all things that be,
The lark, and the thrush, and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song, and the mower's scythe,
And the matin bell, and the mountain bee:
Fireflies were quench'd on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out, on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.
SUNRISE IN S. AMERICA.-BOWLES.'
'Tis dawn-the distant Andes' rocky spires,
One after one, have caught the oriental fires.
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
His wings are touch'd with momentary light.
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
A boundless ocean of gray vapor spreads,
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow,
Till all the living landscape is display'd
In various pomp of color, light, and shade,—
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES was born at Northamptonshire, England, on the 25th of September, 1762. He received his early education at Winchester, where he was at the head of the school during his last year, and, in consequence, was elected a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford, in 1781. In 1783 he gained the chancellor's prize for Latin verse; and published several of his beautiful sonnets and other poems in 1789. Ilis sonnets have, probably, never been surpassed. "The Missionary of the Andes," published in 1815, is, perhaps, as good as any of his numerous and excellent poems. He entered the ministry, and became Vicar of Bremhill, in 1804, which was his residence for nearly a quarter of a century He died at Salisbury, his last residence, on the 7th of April, 1850
Lessening in sunshine to the southern main.
The lama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride,
The tall flamingo, by the river's side,-
Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd,
With snowy neck superb, and legs of lengthening shade.
THROW up the window! "Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury.
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kiss'd it are betray'd; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch; and birds are singing,
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
SWEET is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth.
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild: then silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
'MILTON, see Biographical Sketch, p. 582.
MORNING ON THE RHINE.-BOWLES.
'Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's brow-
Hung with the clusters of the bending vine-
Shone in the early light, when on the RHINE
We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow
In murmurs parting: varying as we go,
Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,
As some gray convent-wall or sun-lit spire
Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow.
Here castles, like the prisons of despair,
Frown as we pass!--There, on the vineyard's side,
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide;
While GRIEF, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
MORNING SOUnds.—Beattie.'
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?-
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side,
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees; the linnet's lay of love;
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings
The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings,
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;
'JAMES BEATTIE, the well-known Scotch poet and moralist, author of the celebrated poem entitled the "Minstrel," and of the Essay on Truth,' was born on the 5th of December, 1735, and died on the 18th of August, 1803.
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower;
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.
EARLY RISING.-HURDIS.'
RISE with the lark, and with the lark to bed.
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of every flower that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps,
Soon as the sun departs. Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon
Her oriëntal vail puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed,
That nature boasts, to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compell'd to taste the rank and poisonous steam
Of midnight theater, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims;
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion.
Oh! there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep; or, wakeful, dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt,
But in the regions of romance'. Ye fair,
Like you it must be wooed, or never won;
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded features to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.
JAMES HURDIS, an English poet of considerable ability, was born in 1763, and died in 1801,
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