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Aroun 1 thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest L
Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, thou bist the world alre,
And humblest nature with thy northern Ulast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep-felt in these appear! a single train,
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combined;
Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade;
And all so forming a harmonious whole,
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring;
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join, every living soul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and, ardent, raise

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes.

Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms!

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,

Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;
And let me catch it as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze

Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,

Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids you roaring fall.

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! blest image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world,
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills: ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound: the broad responsive lowe,
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns,
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake; a boundless song
Burst from the groves! and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn; in swarming cities vast,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling base;

And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.

Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll!

For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east;
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beams Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go
Where Universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still
In infinite progression. But I lose

Myself in Him, in light ineffable!

Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise!

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THERE are few poems in English literature so universally popular as Goldsmith's "Deserted Village:" next to Bunyan's "Pilgrim," it has, perhaps, been as frequently reprinted as any work in this country and America. The ruin and desolation which the poet predicted would accrue from the increasing wealth and luxury of Britain, have not yet taken place, and it is hoped never will; yet the poetry, notwithstanding, is not less beautiful nor less admired.

Robert Blair, the author of the "Grave," was a minister of the Church of Scotland, and father of Lord President Blair, the celebrated Scottish lawyer. The poem is of a highly serious and religious cast, and the grandeur of the language and thought are not unworthy to be compared with the productions of Milton. Some of the passages are familiar as any in our literature.

The poetry of John Dyer is seldom mentioned now-a-days, but "Grongar Hill" should be read by every lover of poetry. Byron thought the six lines commencing, "As yon summits soft and fair," the original of Campbell's celebrated lines at the beginning of the "Pleasures of Hope"-"Tis distance lends enchantment to the view."

The two short poems by Bruce and Logan are favourable specimens of the authors. They were both of the Church of Scotland-the former a teacher, and the latter a clergyman. Logan wrote some of our most popular hymns; Bruce died young, being only twenty-one years old at his death, but nevertheless left sufficient manuscript to fill a volume of poems, which have established a high reputation for their author.

The "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard" is, like Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," universally known and admired. Few, if any, works have been so often reprinted, and in so many forms. Though it consists of verses sufficient to occupy four pages of letter-press only, yet in some instances it has been so elaborately ornamented and illus trated that it has been extended to above a hundred.

The "Schoolmistress" of Shenstone is certainly his most popular poem, and, notwithstanding its affected and antiquated phraseology, it must be confessed, deservedly so. Some of our best artists have shewn their appreciation of it by exercising their genius upon it, and some of the finest pictures in the Royal Academy have been taken from it. In two different stanzas, a remarkable coincidence in idea will be found with the well known verses in the "Elegy" of Gray, beginning "Full many a gem, of purest ray serene."

William Julius Mickle was an accomplished scholar and elegant translator. He wrote also some highly beautiful poems, among which, first and foremost, should be placed the world-known song of "There is nae luck about the house." "Cumnor Hall," given here, is the ballad from which Sir Walter Scott took his idea of the novel of Kenilworth.

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