Графични страници
PDF файл

Aar, to near Brugg, afterwards to Waldshut by the Rhine, then to Basle, and even to the sea, when it was necessary. In order that none of the small wood might be lost, M. Rupp established in the forest large manufactories of charcoal. He erected magazines for preserving it when manufactured, and had made arrangements for the construction of barrels for the purpose of carrying it to the market. In winter, when the slide was covered with snow, the barrels were made to descend on a kind of sledge. The wood which was not fit for being carbonized was heaped up and burned, and the ashes packed up and carried away during the winter.

[ocr errors]



MORNING. - Milton.
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.

MAY MORNING. — Leigh Hunt.
The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay';
A morn, the loveliest which the


Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green.
For a warm eve and gentle rains at night
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light.
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out

A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil;
And all the scene, in short, -sky, earth, and sea,-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

TWILIGHT. - Byron.
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour,
The time, the clime, the spot, when I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft;
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft;

And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.

EVENING. — Milton.
Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale:
She all night long her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased; now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,

Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark. her silver mantle threw.

[ocr errors]

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold’st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls ;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

A FOREST SCENE. - Longfellow. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the

hemlock Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the

twilight, Stand like Druids of eld with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring


Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

AN ENGLISH PARK SCENE. Byron. It stood imbosomed in a happy valley

Crowned by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder stroke

And from beneath his bough were seen to sally

The dappled' foresters as day awoke.
The branching stag swept down with all his herd
To quaff a brook that murmured like a bird.
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its softened way did take

In currents through the calmer water spread Around; the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed; The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fixed upon the flood.

THE DYING PHEASANT. Pope. See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. Ah, what avail his glossy, varying dyes, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

[ocr errors]

A SEA SHELL.-Landor.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace porch, where, when unyoked,
His chariot wheel stands mid way in the wave.*
Shake one, and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.

* That is, at sunset, when the disk of the sun is half way below the horiton, and his day's course has been completed. This last is poetically expressed by saying that his charict has reached the palace porch, and that the horses have been taken from ir


VOICE OF THE WIND. Henry Taylor.
The wind, when first he rose and went abroad
Through the waste region, felt himself at fault,
Wanting a voice, and suddenly to earth
Descended with a wafture and a swoop,
Where, wandering volatile, from kind to kind,
He wooed the several trees to give him one.
First he besought the ash; the voice she lent
Fitfully, with a free and lashing change,
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties :
The aspen next; a fluttered frivolous twitter
Was her sole tribute : from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dressed her out,
A whispering sweetness; but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit; and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean cave
Where he was born.

SONG OF PRAISE. — Milton. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,

That singing up to heaven's gate ascend, : Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.

« ПредишнаНапред »