« السابقةمتابعة »
“ Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feel this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
“ Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
" Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
THE TABLES TURNED. - Wordsworth.
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you 'll grow double : Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks ;
Why all this toil and trouble ?
The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music ! on my life,
There 's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throst e sings !
He, too, is no mean preacher :
Let Nature be your teacher.
Our minds and hearts to bless,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
May teach you more of man,
Than all the sages can.
Our meddling intellect
We murder to dissect.
these barren leaves ;
That watches and receives.
MANHOOD.-C. A. Dana.
Dear, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ;
And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man know
The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
THE CLOUD. - Shelley.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under,
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 't is my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits ;
It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains ;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
And his burning plumes outspread,
When the morning star shines dead. As on the jeg oi a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea b.
neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the
pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex
gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,