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Storms and tempests, floods and rains,
Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity;
May no winds careering high,

Drive the clouds along the sky;
But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Harvest

Moon!

’Neath yon lowly roof he lies,
The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes;
He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;
Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy :
God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring

whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury to you
Leave I sleep's dull power to woo :

Press ye still the downy bed,
While fev'rish dreams surround your head;
I will seek the woodland glade,
Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapt in contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,

While on the gale

Shall softly sail
The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise
To thee, the modest Ilarvest Moon !

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckow's bill,

Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Ilave link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

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Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why :

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

MILTON.

SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide;

“ Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?” I fondly ask: but Patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear Ilis mild yoke, they serve IIim best : His state, Is kingly; thousands at IIis bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.”—MILTON.

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If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserved! while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum :

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers stealing through thy dark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

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