God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry—
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs,
The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings !
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay,

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;

But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow;

For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

XXII. CLEON AND I.

PEABODY.

"THE charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field,

Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has, but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their land-deeds give them no title."-Emerson.

CLEON hath a million acres,

Ne'er a one have I ;
Cleou dwelleth in a palace,
In a cottage I:

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,
Not a penny I;

Yet the poorer of the twain is
Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesseth acres,
But the landscape I;

Half the charms to me it yieldeth
Money cannot buy.
Cleon harbours sloth and dulness,
Freshening vigour I;

He in velvet, I in fustian,
Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,
Free as thought am I ;
Cleon fees a score of doctors,
Need of none have I :
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,
Cleon fears to die ;

Death may come, he'll find me ready,
Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in nature,

In a daisy, I;

Cleon hears no anthems ringing

In the sea and sky;

Nature sings to me for ever,

Earnest listener I ;

State for state, with all attendants,

Who would change ?-not I.

CHARLES MACKAY.

XXIII. THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

"THE whole world is distracted with factions; and therefore, sure, the old time was much to be commended in tolerating, or rather giving occasion to some country May-games or sports, or dancing, piping, pageants, all which did serve to assuage the cruelty of man's nature, that,

giving him some little ease and recreation, they might withhold him from worser attempts, and so preserve amity between men. Upon the abolishing of these, you could not conceive in reason, were it not that we find it true by experience (for, sometimes things which are small in the consideration are great in the practice), what dissolute and riotous course, what unlawful games, what drunkenness, what envy, hatred, malice, and quarrelling have succeeded in lieu of these harmless sports! And these are the fruits which our strict professors have brought into the world! I know not how they may boast of their faith (for, indeed, they are pure professors), but sure I am they have banished all charity."- Goodman's Fall of Man.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ;
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please!
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene;
How often have I paused on every charm-
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime, circled in the shade,
The young contended as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

GOLDSMITH.

A MAY-DAY SONG.

253

XXIV. A MAY-DAY SONG.

"THERE is a want too much lost sight of in our estimate of the privations of the humbler classes, though it is one of the most incessantly craving of all our wants, and is actually the impelling power which, in the vast majority of cases, urges men into vice and crime. It is the want of amusement. It is in vain to declaim against it. Equally with any other principle of our nature, it calls for its natural indulgence, and we cannot be permanently debarred from it, without souring the temper, and spoiling the character. Like the indulgence of all other appetites, it only requires to be kept within due bounds, and turned upon innocent or beneficial objects, to become a spring of happiness; but gratified to a certain moderate extent it must be, in the case of every man, if we desire him to be either a useful, active, or contented member of society. Now I would ask, what provision do we find for the cheap and innocent and daily amusement of the mass of the labouring population of this country? What sort of resources have they to call up the cheerfulness of their spirits, and chase away the cloud from their brow, after the fatigue of a day's hard work, or the stupefying monotony of some sedentary occupapation?"-Sir John Herschel.

COME out, come out from cities;
For once your drudging stay;
With work 'twere thousand pities
To wrong this honoured day;
Your fathers met the May
With laughter, dance and tabor;
Come, be as wise as they ;
Come, steal to-day from labour.

Is this the proof we're wiser
Than all who've gone before,
That Nature, less we prize her
Than those who lived of yore?
Their May-day sacrifice

Shall we not hold a duty,
And pay with hearts and eyes
Due honour to her beauty?

Talk not of want of leisure,
Believe me, life was made
For laughter, mirth and pleasure,
Far more than toil and trade.
And little short I hold

That social state from madness,

For daily bread where's sold

Man's natural right to gladness.

Then out from lane and alley,
From court and busy street,
Through glade and grassy valley,
With songs the May to meet;
For jests and laughter, care

From all things could but borrow {
The earth, the very air

Are death to thoughts of sorrow.
Come, hear the silver prattle
Of brooks that babbling run
Through pastures green, where cattle
Lie happy in the sun;
Where violets' hidden eyes

Are watching May's sweet coming,
And gnats and burnished flies

Its welcome loud are humming.
In song the spring comes welling
To-day from out the grass;
And not a hedge but's telling
Earth's gladness as you pass;
Far up the bright blue sky
The quivering lark is singing;
The thrush in copses nigh

Shouts out the joy it's bringing.
Then leave your weary moiling,
Your desks and shops to-day;
"Tis sin to waste in toiling
This jubilee of May;

Come, stretch you where the light
Through golden limes is streaming,

And spend, O rare delight!

An hour in summer dreaming.

W. C. BENNEtt.

XXV. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

"POETRY has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation and of the soul. It indeed pourtrays, with terrible energy, the excesses of the passions; but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep, though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer element; and to breathe into it more pro