Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow ;, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass And the nursling of the sky; through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is hare, And the winds and the sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. Shelley. LINES, SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A DYING SON. Weep not for me, mother! because I must die, And sink in death's coldness to rest; Weep not for me, mother! because death is nigh, I go to the home of the blest! It is but a moment-a pang-and no more A struggle and that to be free; 'Tis the spirit's last look on a journey that's o'er; Oh death has no terror for me. Weep not for me, mother! the Christian should fling But only in death when his spirit takes wing, Farewell to thee now-t - The moments are numbered another the last, Anon. EXTRACT FROM THE MINSTREL. Yet such the destiny of all on earth; So flourishes and fades majestic man; Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, And fostering gales a while the nursling fan. O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan, Borne on the swift, though silent wings of time, Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, When fate relenting lets the flowers revive? Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain ? No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive, And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of love's triumphant reign. Beattie. |