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Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art that chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ’mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than

glass Untouch'd, unbreath'd upon. Thrice happy guest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast This moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year with all its cares, to rest.



Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling

Look for the stars, you 'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight.
The birds, of late so noisy in their powers,
Warbled awhile with faint and fainter powers,
But are now silent as the dim-seen flowers;
Nor does the village church-clock’s iron tone
The town's and season's influence disown;
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence; how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And join his little children in their sleep,
The bat, lured from where trees the lane o'ershade,
Flits and refits along the close arcade:

Far heard the dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more:
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
With the next dipping of its slacken'd oar;
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,
Might give to serious thoughts a moment's sway,
As a last token of man's toilsome day!



THE headlong streams, and fountains,
Serve Thee, Invisible Spirit, with untired powers;
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers.
That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am,
How fearful to the desert wide!
That bleat, how tender! of the dam
Calling a straggler to her side.
Shout, cuckoo, let the vernal soul
Go with thee to the frozen zone;
Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll!
At the still hour to mercy dear,-
Mercy from her twilight throne
Listening to nun's faint sob of holy fear,
To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea,
Or widow's cottage lullaby.

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Blest be the song that brightens
The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth:
Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens
His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth.
For the tired slave, song lifts the languid oar,
And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore,

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And mitigates the harshest clime.
Yon pilgrims see—in lagging file
They move; but soon the appointed way
A choral Ave Maria shall beguile,
And to their hope the distant shrine
Glisten with a livelier ray:
Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine,
Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest.

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The pipe of Pan, to shepherds
Couch'd in the shadow of Menalian pines,
Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards,
That in high triumph drew the lord of vines,
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang!
While fauns and satyrs beat the ground
In cadence,--and Silenus swang
This way and that, with wild flowers crown'd.
To life, to life give back thine ear;
Ye who are longing to be rid
Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear
The sprinkling of cold earth that fell
Echoed from the coffin lid;
The convict's summons in the steeple knell;
“The vain distress gun,” from the leeward shore,
Repeated-heard, and heard no more!

For terror, joy, or pity,
Vast is the compass and the swell of notes ;
From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city,
Rolling a solemn, sea-like bass, that floats
Far as the woodlands--with the thrill to blend
Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale
Might tempt an angel to descend,
While hovering o'er the moonlight vale.
O for some sonl-affecting scheme
Of moral music, to unite
Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream
Of memory!- that they might stoop to bear

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Chains, such precious chains of sight
As labour'd minstrelsies through ages wear!
O for a balance fit the truth to tell
Of the unsubstantial ponder'd well!

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Break forth into thanksgiving,
Ye banded instruments of wind and chords;
Unite to magnify the Ever-living,
Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words !
Nor hush'd be service from the lowing mead,
Nor mute the forest hum of noon;
Thou too be heard, lone Eagle! freed
From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn
Of joy, that from her utmost walls
The six-days' work, by flaming seraphim,
Transmits to heaven. As deep to deep
Shouting through one valley calls,
All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, pour'd
Into the ear of God, their Lord !
A voice to Light gave Being ;
To Time, and man his earth-born chronicler;
A voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,
And sweep away life's visionary stir:
The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride,
Arm at its blast for deadly wars,)
To archangelic lips applied,
The grave shall open, quench the stars.
O silenced are man's noisy years
No more than moments of ihy life!
Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears,
With her smooth tones and discords just
Temper'd into rapturous strife,
Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be

dust And vanish, though the heaven dissolve, her stay Is in the World, that shall not pass away.



ALAS! the sanctities combined
By art to unsensualize the mind,
Decay and languish ; or, as creeds
And humours change, are spurn'd like weeds:
The solemn rites, the awful forms,
Founder amid fanatic storms;
The priests are from their altars thrust,
The temples levell’d with the dust;
Yet evermore, through years renew'd,
In undisturbed vicissitude,
Of seasons balancing their flight
On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door
Wide open for the scatter'd poor.
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies;
And ground fresh cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with a humbler vow;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles,
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head;
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Almighty Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Her admonitions Nature yields;
That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give;
That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart;
So shall the seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve, with hallow'd rest.


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