ODE.

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower-
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind :
In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,.
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears—
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
WILLIAM Wordsworth.

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The Hermit.

T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,

Α'

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man :

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay—

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away! Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendor again! But man's faded glory what change shall renew?

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more.

I mourn-but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?

O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?"

THE FIRST VOICES OF PARADISE.

"'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.'

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :

So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray,

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The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."

JAMES BEATTIE.

The First Voices of Paradise.
WHAT was 't awakened first the untuned ear

Of that sole man who was all human kind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sear?
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

The Bells.

HEAR the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, beils, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight,

From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

THE BELLS.

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright !
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,

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How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

Of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !