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Meekly the flower-spirits hold
Their robes the lily's virgin hue,
The regal rose's crimson dye, The violet's celestial blue,
That, clad in beauty, they might woo
The rain god, sweeping through the sky, To fill their vessels with his precious dew. See the transparent nectar swell, Curving upon the brim!
How far behind art's best essays!
Art imitates with feeble lines
The forms that Nature's hand designs.
SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.
THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
In grateful silence earth receives
Each flower expands its little leaves,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.
The sun breaks forth ;-from off the scene
With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on Nature,-yet the same-
Fresh in her youth from God's own hand.
Hear the rich music of that voice,
Which sounds from all, below, above;
She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love.
Drink in her influence; -low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire
ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
There has not been a sound to-day
I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear-I love it well
The rain's continuous sound;
For leafy thickness is not yet
Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set
With shoots of tender green.
Sure, since I looked at early morn,
Those honeysuckle buds
Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs.
That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,
The very earth, the steamy air,
Down, down they come-those fruitful stores!
A momentary deluge pours,
Then thins, decreases, stops.
And ere the dimples on the stream
Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth, of amber light.
HYMN TO THE MOON.
REFULGENT pilgrim of the sky,
And there, begirt with mounts of snow,
What marvel that the spirits high
Of eastern climes and ancient days, Should hail thee as a deity,
And altars to thine honor raise !
So lovely wert thou to the gaze Of shepherds on Chaldean hills,
When summer flowers around were springing, And when to thee a thousand rills Throughout the quiet night were singing.
And lo! the dwarfish Laplander,
Nor beautiful the less art thou,
When ocean's gentlest breezes fan,