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Ana every sense, and every heart, is joy.

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, Then comes thy glory in the summer months, From world to world, the vital ocean round, With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun On nature write with every beam his praise. Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; The thunder rolls; be hush'd the prostrate world, And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks- While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,

Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined,

Ye valleys, raise; for the great Shepherd reigns; And spreads a common feast for all that lives. And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. In winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms Ye woodlands all, awake; a boundless song Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll’d, Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore,

Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela charm And humblest nature with thy northern blast. The listening, shades and teach the night his praiso

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Yechief, for whom the whole creation smiles, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,

As once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art,

Crown the great hymn! in swarming cicies vast, Such beauty and beneficence combined;

Assembled men, to the deep organ join Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade;

The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, And all so forming an harmonious whole;

At solemn pauses, through the sweining base; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.

And, as each mingling flame increases each,
But wondering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, In one united ardour rise to heaven.
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand Or if you rather choose the rural snade,
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres;

And find a fane in every sacred grove;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day:

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; For me, when I forget the darling theme.
And, as on earth this greatful change revolves,

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray With transport touches all the springs of life. Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Nature, attend! join every living soul,

Or winter rises in the blackening east, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,

Be my tongue mute—my fancy paint no more, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! One general song! To him ye vocal gales,

Should fate command me to the farthest verge Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Oh talk of him in solitary glooms!

Rivers unknown to song—where first the sun Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

Flames on the Atlantic isles—'tis nought to me: And ye whose bolder note is heard afar,

Since God is ever present, ever felt,
Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven. In the void waste as in the city full;
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. And where he vital spreads there must be joy.
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;

When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And let me catch it as I muse along.

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound;

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze

Will rising wonders sing, I cannot go Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,

Where universal love not smiles around,
A secret word of wonder in thyself,

Sustaining all your orbs, and all their sons,
Sound his stupendous praise-whose greater voice From seeming evil still educing good,
Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fall.

And better thence again, and better still,
Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In infinite progression. But I lose
In mingled clouds to him—whose sun exalts,

Myself in Him in light ineffable!
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.

Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,

THE GRAVE.
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,

On this side and on that, men see their friends Ye constellations, while your angels strike,

Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.

Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers Great source of day! best image here below

In the world's hall and undegen'rate days

ROBERT BLAIR.

Whose ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth.—The shrill tongu'd

shrew,
Meek as the turtle dove, forgets her chiding.
Here the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, and profane;
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean;
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

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Could scarce have leisure for.–Fools that we are,
Never to think or death and of ourselves,
At the same time; as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours-Oh! more than sottish,
For creatures of a day in gamesome mood,
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoll'n surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a restless unremitting stream;
Yet treads more soft than e're did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize-What is this world?
What? but a spacious burial-field unwallid,
Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once liv'd;
And we that live must lend our carcasses
To cover our own offspring: In their turns
They too must cover theirs—'Tis here all meet,
The shiv'ring Icelander and sunburn'd Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight.—Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.
Now vain their treaty-skill:—Death scorns to treat;
Here the o'erloaded slave Alings down his burden
From his gall’d shoulders; and when the stern tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard of hardships,
Mocks his short arm,—and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream
(Time out of mind the favorite seats of love),
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue.-Here friends and foes
Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-rob'd prelate and plain presbyter,
Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock has split.
Here is the large limb'd peasant;—here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters:
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude, severe, and gay coquette,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,

Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war? The Roman Cæsars and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all then discovered globe; And cried, foresooth, because his arm was hampered, And had not room enough to do its work? Alas, how slim-dishonourably slim! And crammed into a space we blush to name! Proud royalty! How altered is thy looks! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Son of the morning! whither art thou gone? Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now: Like new.born infant wound up in his swathes, Or victim tumbled flat upon his back, That throbs beneath his sacrificer's knife; Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues, And coward insults of the base-born crowd, That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, But only hoped for in the peaceful graveOf being unmolested and alone! Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, And honours by the heralds duly paid In mode and form, e'en to a very scruple (O cruel irony!); these come too late, And only mock when they were meant to honour!

Strength, too! thou surely and less gently boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dared thee to the unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan, indeed,
With anguish heavy laden! let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belaboured, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play! What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs and well spread

shoulders?
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning. Hideous sight!
O how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!

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While the distemper's rank and deadly venom

We'll have some music— if you're willing; Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels,

And Roger-h’m, what a plague a cough is, sirAnd drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan? Shall march a little. Start, you villian: It was his last. See how the great Goliah,

Stand straight, 'bout face, salute your officer. Just like a child that brawled itself to rest,

Put up that paw-dress—take

your rifle Lies still. What mean'st thou then, O mighty (Some dogs have arms, you see), now, hold you boaster,

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle
To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the bull, To aid a poor old patriotic soldier!
Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man;

March, halt-now, show how the rebel shakes That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,

When he stands up to hear his sentence; Trusts only in the well invented knife?

Now tell how many drams it takes

To honour a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps! that's five, he's mighty knowing.
THE VAGABONDS.

The night's before us—fill the glasses;
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

Quick, sir; I'm ill, my brain is going-
We are two travelers-Roger and I:

Some brandy?—thank you—there, it passes! Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye!

Why not reform--that's easily said: Over the table, look out for the lamp

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, The rogue is growing a little old:

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, Five years we've tramped through wind and And scarce remembering what meat meant, weather,

That my poor stomach's past reform; And slept out.doors when nights were cold,

And there are times when, mad with thinking, And ate and drank-and starved together.

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you-
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

Is there a way to forget to think?
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends The paw he holds up there's been frozen),

A dear girl's love—but I took to drinkPlenty of catgut for my fiddle

The same old story; you know how it ends. This out-door business is bad for strings

If you could have seen these classic features And a few nice buck-wheats hot from the griddle, You need'nt laugh, sir, they were not then And Roger and I set up for kings.

Such a burning libel on God's creatures,

I was one of your handsome men.
No, thank ye, sir-I never drink,
Roger and I are exceedingly moral-

If you had have seen her, so fair and young, Aren't we Roger? See him wink!

Whose head was happy on this breast; Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. If you could have heard the songs I sung He's thirsty, too, see him nod his head!

When the wine went round, you would'nt have What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

guessed, He understands every word that's said

That ever I, sir, should be straying
And he knows good milk from water and chalk. From door to door with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

To you to-night for a glass of grog.
I have been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect

She's married since-a parson's wife: (Here's to you, sir) even of my dog.

'Twas beiter for her that we should part, But he sticks by, through thick and thin;

Better the soberest prosiest life And this old coat with its empty pockets,

Than a blasted home and a broken heart, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

Have I seen her?—once: I was weak and speni: He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

On the dusty road a carriage stopped;

But little she dreamed as on she went, There isn't another creature living

Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropped. Would do it, and prove through every disaster So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry: To such a miserable, thankless master.

It makes me wild to think of the changema No, sir-see him wag his tail and grin!

What d'ye care for a beggar's story: By George, it makes my old eyes water!

Is it amusing 1-you find it strangei That is, there's something in this gin

I had a mother so proud of me; That chokes a fellow-but no matter.

'Twas well she died before. Do ya kuow

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If the happy spirits in heaven can see

The ruined and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong!-to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder has he such a lumpish leaden

Aching thing in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,

No doubt remembering things that wereA virtuous kennel with plenty of food,

And himself a sober respectable cur.

In heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they had their birth.

But Love is indestructible :
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,

It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,

The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,

An over-payment of delight?

I'm better now—that glass was warming:

You rascal limber your lazy feet; We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed-or starve in the street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we will go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink

The sooner the better for Roger and me.

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