Much-that is written-within its chamber,

Much-th't is shrined-in the mind's living amber,

Much of this thought of mine.

There's music below-in the glistening leaves,

There's music above,—and heaven's blue bosom heaves
The silvery clouds between;

The boughs of the woodland-are nodding—(in play,)
And wooingly-beckon my spirit away;—

I hear the dreamy hum

Of bees-in the lime-tree, and birds-on the spray;
And they (too)—are calling my thinking away;
But I can not-can not come.

Vision-of verdant-and heart-cooling places-
Will steal on my soul—like a golden spring-rain,
Bringing the lost light-of brave-vanish'd faces,
Till all my life-blossoms with beauty again.
But oh, for a glimpse of the flower-laden morning,

Th't makes the heart-leap up, and knock at heaven's door!
Oh, for the green lane, the green field, the green wood,
To take in (by heartfuls) their greenness—once more!
How I yearn to lie down-in the lush-flower'd meadows,
And nestle-in leaves-and the sleep-of the shadows,
Where violets-(in the cool gloom)—are awaking,
There-let my soul-burst-from its cavern of clay,
To float down the warm spring,-away-and away!
For I was not made (merely) for money-making.
At my wearisome task-I oftentimes-turn

From my bride and my wearisome monitress-(Duty,)
Forgetting the strife-and the wrestle of life,
(To talk with the spirit of beauty.)

The multitude's hum, and the chinking of gold,
Grow hush-as the dying day,—

For-on wings-(pulsing music,) with joy untold,
My heart-is up—and away!

I fain would struggle-and give to birth;

For I would not pass away from earth—

And make no sign!

I yearn to utter-what might live on

In the world's heart when I am gone.

I would not plod on (like these slaves of gold,
Who shut up their souls in a dusky cave:)
I would see the world better and nobler-soul'd,

Ere I dream of heaven-in my green turf-grave.
I may toil till my life—is fill'd with dreariness,—
Toil-'till my heart-is a wreck in its weariness,
Toil-for ever for tear-steep'd bread,

Till I go down-to the silent dead.

But by this yearning,—this hoping,—this aching,
I was not made merely-for money-making.

XXXIV.—MY BELOVED IS ALL THE WORLD TO ME. MASSEY.

Heaven-hath its crown of stars, the earth
Her glory-robe-of flowers,-

The sea-its gems,—the grand old woods
Their songs-and greening showers:

The birds-have homes,-where leaves and blooms-
In beauty-wreathe above;

High-yearning hearts—their rainbow-dreams,—
And we, (sweet,) we have love.

We walk not-with the jewel'd great,
Where love's dear name-is sold;
Yet-have we wealth-we would not give-
For all their world-of gold!
We-revel not-in corn-and wine,—
Yet-have we-(from above)—
Manna-divine,-and-we'll not pine:
Do we not live-and love?

There's sorrow-for the toiling poor,
On misery's bosom-nurs'd;
Rich robes-for ragged souls,-and crowns
For branded brows-Cain-curs'd!

But cherubim, (with clasping wings,)
Ever-about us be,

And happiest-of God's happy things,
There's love-for you-and me.

Thy lips, (th't kiss-till death,) have turn'd
Life's water-into wine;

The sweet life-(melting-through thy looks)
Hath made my life-divine.

All—love's dear promise—hath been kept
Since thou-to me-wert given;
A ladder-for my soul to climb,
And summer high-in heaven.

I know,-(dear heart!) th't-(in our lot,)
May mingle-tears-and sorrow;
But-love's-rich rainbow's built from tears-

To-day, with smiles-to-morrow.

The sunshine-from our sky-may die,-
The greenness—from life's tree,-

The world-may never know,-(dear heart,)

What-I have found-in thee;

But, tho' naught-to the world, (dear heart,)

Thou 'rt all-the world-to ME.

XXXV.-GOD'S WORLD IS WORTHY BETTER MEN. MASSEY.

Behold, an idle tale-they tell,

And who shall blame their telling it?
The rogues-have got their cant-to sell,
The world-pays well-for selling it!
They say the world's a desert drear,—
Still-plagued-with Egypt's blindness!
Th't we were sent to suffer here;-
What! by a God of kindness?
Th't-since the world-has gone astray,
It must be so for ever,-

And we should stand still, and obey—
Its desolators. Never!

We'll labor for the better time

With all our might-of press-and pen ;

Believe me, 't is a truth sublime,

God's world-is worthy-better men.

With Paradise-the world began,
A world of love-and gladness:
Its beauty-may be marr'd-by man—
With all his crime--and madness,—
Yet 't is a brave world-still. Love-brings
A sunshine-for the dreary;

With all our strife-sweet rest-hath wings-
To fold o'er hearts-a-weary.

The sun-in glory, (like a god,)

To-day-climbs up-heaven's bosom,—

The flowers-(upon the jewel'd sod)

In sweet love-lessons-blossom,
As radiant of immortal youth—

And beauty-as in Eden; then
Believe me, 't is a noble truth,

God's world-is worthy better men.

Oh, they are bold-knaves,-over-bold,
Who say we are doom'd to anguish :
Th't man,—(in God's own image—soul'd,)
Like hell-bound slaves-must languish.
Probe nature's heart-to its red core,
There's more of good-than evil;
And man,-down-trampled man,—is more
Of angel-than of devil.

"Prepare-to die?" Prepare to live!
We know not-what is-living:
And let us- -(for the world's good)—give,
As God-is ever giving.

Give action,-thought,-love,-wealth,—and time,

To win the primal age—again;'
Believe me, 't is a truth-sublime,

God's world-is worthy-better men.

XXXVI. THE FOUR ERAS OF HUMAN LIFE. ROGERS.

The lark-has sung his carol-in the sky;

The bees-have hummed-their noon-tide harmony;
Still-in the vale-the village-bells-ring round;
Still-in Llewellyn-hall-the jests-resound:
For now-the caudle-cup-is circling there,

Now (glad at heart)-the gossips-breathe their
And-(crowding,) stop the cradle-to admire
The babe, the sleeping image-of his sire.

prayer,

A few short years, and then-these sounds-shall hail The day again,—and gladness-fill the vale;

So soon-the child-a youth,—the youth—a man,

Eager to run the race-his father ran.

Then the huge ox-shall yield—the broad surloin;
The ale,-(new brewed,)-in floods of amber shine;
And-(basking-in the chimney's ample blaze,)
Mid many a tale-told of his childish days,
The nurse shall cry,-(of all her ills-beguiled,)
"'T was on these knees-he sat so oft,-and smiled."
And now-again-shall music-swell the breeze;
Soon,--(issuing forth,) shall glitter-(through the trees)-
Vestures-of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets-scattered round; and old-and young,-
In every-cottage-porch,-(with garlands green,)
Stand still-to gaze,-and-(gazing)—bless the scene;
While, (her dark eyes-downcast,)-by his side,-
Moves,-(in virgin veil,) the gentle bride.

And once,-alas! nor-in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come-from yonder tower ;
When-(in dim chambers)-long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard-where only joy-has been;
When-(by his children borne,) and-from his door-
Slowly departing,-to return-no more,

He rests-in holy earth-with them-th't went before.

XXXVII-LOCH KATRINE. WALTER SCOTT.
Onward-(amid the copse 'gan peep)
A narrow inlet-still-and deep!
Allowing scarce-such breadth of brim
As served the wild duck's brood-to swim:

Lost (for a space,) through thickets veering,
But broader-when again appearing.
Tall rocks-and tufted knolls-their face
Could―(on the dark mirror) trace!
And farther-(as the hunter stray'd)-
Still broader sweep-its channels made.
The shaggy mounds-no longer stood
Emerging-from the tangled wood,
But--(wave-encircled,) seemed to float
Like castle-girdled with its moat;
Yet broader floods-(extending still)-
Divide them-from their parent hill,-
Till cach,-(retiring,)—claims to be
An islet-in an inland sea!

And now,-(to issue-from the glen,)
No pathway-meets the wanderer's ken,-
Unless he climb,-with footing nice,

A far-projecting precipice!

The broom's tough roots-his ladder made,
The hazle saplings-lent their aid;
And thus-an airy point he won,
Where,-(gleaming-with the setting sun,)
One burnished sheet-of living gold,
Lock Katrine lay-beneath him rolled!
In all her length-(far winding) lay-
With promontory,-creek,-and bay,-
And islands-th't, (empurpled bright
Floated-amid the livelier light;

And mountains-th't-(like giants stand)
To sentinel-enchanted land.

High-(on the south) huge Ben-venue-
Down to the lake-(in masses) threw

Crags,-knolls, and mounds confusedly-hurled,
The fragments-of an earlier world.

A wildering forest-feathered o'er

His ruined sides-and summit hoar,

While (on the north,) through middle air,—
Ben-an heaved high-his forehead bare.

XXXVIII.-REVENGE: FOSCARI, THE DOGE OF VENICE. ROGERS.

Let us lift up the curtain,—and observe

What passes-in that chamber. Now-a sigh,—
And now-a groan-is heard. Then-all-is still.

Twenty-are sitting-as in judgment—there;

Men-who have served their country,—and grown gray

In governments-and distant embassies;—

Men-eminent-alike-in war-and peace;

Such-as-(in effigy)—shall long--adorn