Its ardors of rest and of love, 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 The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky, fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere fire above its soft colors wove While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain And the winds and the sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. THE EMIGRANTS. Andrew Marvell. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song: 'What should we do but sing His praise 'Where He the huge sea monsters rocks 'He gives us this eternal spring, 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, 'He makes the figs our mouth to meet, Thus sang they in the English boat, And all the way to guide their chime, VIRTUE. Berbert. SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, For thou must die. Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives. RECOLLECTIONS. From the German of Friedrich Matthisan. I LONG to see once more before I die The fields in which I wandered when a child, Where all the happy dreams of opening life Around me hovered. The rill with banks of violets that flowed Among the alders which my father planted, Would give me greater pleasure than the sight Of classic rivers. And that low hill, crowned with a linden tree, Where round and round with hands together clasped, I and my playmates ran, would tell me more Than Alpine mountains. THE PIC-NIC FROM LUISE. From the German of Sahaun Beinrich Voss. THEN spake the mother, full of care and bustle, 'Hans, bring the kettle; here we'll light the fire Where the cool wind will drive the smoke away. Where shall we sit? Here, under this old beech, This good old family tree, whose rind is marked |