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With thunders from the native oak,
The meteor flag of England
TO THE RAINBOW..
By CAMPBELL. TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art;— Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given For happy spirits to alight,
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow ?
When science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws. And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.
O'er mountains yet untrod,
To bless the bow of God.
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Be still the poet's theme !
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain tower and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
That first spoke peace to man.
By CAMPBELL. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light, The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery, But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
"Tis morn, but ecarce yon level sun
TO A BUTTERFLY.
By ROGERS. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light, And where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragant nectar from their cups of gold; There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy. Yet wast thou once a worm-a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man-soon from his cell of clay To burst, a seraph in the blaze of day.
THE ALPS AT DAYBREAK.
From rock to rock with giant-bound,
THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.
By M. MILNES. How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An Angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers, News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed,—as we shall know for ever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths-angels that are to be Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours, to meet in happy air,A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.