Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc. H AST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course?-so long he seems to pause Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven, Awake, my soul! not only passive praise MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC. Co-herald! wake, oh wake! and utter praise. And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded-and the silence came-- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 23 "GOD!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "GOD!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "GOD!" and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peak, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, To rise before me--rise, oh ever rise, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. The Beacon. HE scene was more beautiful far to my eye, THE Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky Looked pure as the Spirit that made it. The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed On the shadowy wave's playful motion, From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed, No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast THE FIRST OF MARCH. I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope, And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as Hope, The time is long past and the scene is afar; Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory often rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow. And in life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion, O then may the Seraph of mercy arise, Like a star on eternity's ocean. ANONYMOUS. 25 The First of March. HE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, THE And earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic of the vine, From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine. The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower, Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower; And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground, The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day Spring. Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all of flowers, And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave; And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing, Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, HORACE SMITH. TH The Death of the Flowers. HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? |