Till every limb obey the mounting soul,

The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.

KEBLE.

FOREST SCENE.

I KNOW a forest vast and old,

A shade so deep, so darkly green, That morning sends her shaft of gold In vain to pierce its leafy screen.

I know a brake where sleeps the fawn,

The soft-eyed fawn, through noon's repose,

For noon with all the calm of dawn

Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs.

O! proudly there the forest kings

Their banners lift on vale and mount; And cool and fresh the wild grass springs By lonely path, by sylvan fount;

There o'er the fair leaf-laden rill

The laurel sheds its clustered bloom, And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill,

The rowan waves his scarlet plume.

No huntsman's call, no baying hound,

Scares from his rest the light-limbed stag,

But following faint his airy bound

Glad echo leaps from crag to crag; From morn till eve the wood-birds sing, And, by the wild wave's glittering play, The pheasant plumes her glossy wing, The doe lies couched at close of day.

From slippery ledge, from moss-grown rock, Dash the swift waters at a bound,

And from the foam that veils the shock

Floats every wavelet sparkle crowned. By brake, and dell, and lawny glade,

O'er gnarled root, o'er mossy stone,

Beneath the forest's emerald shade

The brook winds murmuring, chiding on.

Far floating o'er its limpid breast

The lily sends her petals fair, And couched beside her regal crest

The balm-flower scents the drowsy air. From spray and vine, o'er rocky ledge Hang blossoms wild of scarlet dye,

And on the curved and sanded edge

The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie.

There wakes no tone of idle mirth

Amid those shadows vast and dim,
But from the gentle lips of earth,
How soft and low her forest hymn!
How soft and low where stirs the wind
Through the dark arches of the wood,
Where, mass on mass, the boughs entwined,
Hang whispering o'er the chiming flood!

When twilight skies look faintly down,
When noon lies hushed on leaf and spray,

When midnight casts her silver crown
Before the throne of godlike day,
There still to earth's perpetual choir
The same sweet harmony is given :
For angels wake her sacred lyre,

And every chord is strung by Heaven.

EDITH MAY.

WOODS IN SPRING.

HAIL, Source of Being! Universal Soul
Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail!
To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts,
Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand,
Hast the great whole into perfection touched.
By Thee the various vegetative Tribes,
Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,
Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew.
By Thee disposed into congenial soils,

Stands each attractive Plant, and sucks, and swells
The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes.
At Thy command the vernal Sun awakes
The torbid sap, detruded to the root
By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance,
And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads
All this innumerous colored scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world

My Theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.

Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! oh pour

The mazy-running soul of melody

Into my varied verse! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,
The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame, The Passion of the Groves.

When first the Soul of Love is sent abroad
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,

In gallant thought to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfined. Up springs the Lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounting sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The Thrush
And Wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length