WILLIAM GREEN.

I.

A SULTRY SUMMER AFTERNOON.

FAR off the rook, tired by the midday beam,
Caws lazily this summer afternoon;

The butterflies, with wandering up and down

O'er flower-bright marsh and meadow, wearied seem; With vacant gaze, lost in a waking dream,

We, listless, on the busy insects pore,

In rapid dance uncertain, darting o'er
The smooth-spread surface of the tepid stream.
The air is slothful, and will scarce convey
Soft sounds of idle waters to the ear:
In brightly-dim obscurity appear

The distant hills which skirt the landscape gay;
While restless fancy owns th' unnerving sway
In visions often changed, but nothing clear.

II.

MELODY AND HARMONY.

MUSIC, high maid, at first, essaying, drew

Rude sketches for the ear; till, with skilled hand
She traced the flowing outline, simply grand
In varied groups to grace and nature true;
And this was MELODY. Her knowledge grew,

And, more to finish, as her powers expand,

Those beauteous draughts, a noble scheme she planned, And o'er the whole a glow of coloring threw, Evening's rich painting on a pencilled sky,

Tints that with sweet accord bewitch the sense;
'T was HARMONY. The common crowd that press
Around prefer the charms these hues dispense,

As they chance-mingled on the palette lie,
To her white forms of undecked loveliness.

III.

GENTLE GREATNESS UNDERVALUED, TILL LOST.

FROM the unbarring to the shut of day,

Ay, ofttimes restless in the midnight blind,
His loss I mourn ; it lies upon my mind

Like a thick mist that will not clear away,

But bodes, and brings, grief's showers. His was a sway Of soul so gentle, we alone might find,

Not see its strength; a wit, that, ever kind, Would spare the humbled in its freest play ;· A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep; His mighty powers attired themselves so plain They drew no worship though they won the heart : Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep; But, as of visiting gods the poets feign,

We knew him not, till turning to depart.

CHARLES STRONG.

I.

My window's open to the evening sky,
The solemn trees are fringed with golden light,
The lawn here shadowed lies, there kindles bright,
And cherished roses lift their incense high :

The punctual thrush, on plane-tree warbling nigh,
With loud and luscious voice calls down the night;
Dim waters, flowing on with gentle might,
Between each pause are heard to murmur by.
The book that told of wars in holy land

(Nor less than Tasso sounded in mine ears)
Escapes unheeded from my listless hand.

Poets, whom Nature for her service rears,

Like priests in her great temple minisť'ring stand, But in her glory fade when she appears.

II.

SUNRISE AT SEA, ON A SOUTHERN MISTY MORNING.

ROUSED by the billows' melancholy dirge,
I woke, as Night her sable banner furled;
What time pale mists, in forms fantastic curled,
Like spectral shapes, come flitting o'er the surge:
Then, looking eastward, o'er the ocean's verge,
From the near sun I saw red flashes hurled,
As rolls the pageant from the nether world,
And from the waves the golden wheels emerge.
Never of old did more portentous light

Suspend the seaman's oar, when, like a pyre,
Lemnos appeared at evening, kindling bright;
Rather- when tasked by Jove, in sudden ire,
The god was laboring with his crew all night,
On glowing anvils shaping forkéd fire.